A waiter placed a chair, and he sat down, took the menu card, and quickly gave his order. He was a short, thick-set, shrewd-faced man; his hair was turning gray on the temples, but he seemed to have lost little of the nervous energy and alertness that had been his in the old days when he had been called the swiftest second sacker in the business. He had been an umpire baiter then, but in later years his methods had changed, and never once since becoming a manager had he been given the gate. Nevertheless, while he had gained in diplomacy, he had relaxed no whit in aggressiveness. Led by old Ben, the Wolves fought to the last ditch. "Now, tell me about it," he requested, turning to Lefty. "How in thunder did you happen to let them rope you into such a mess?" "You mean--" "Getting tied up as manager of the Blue Stockings. Boy, you're the goat; you've been chosen for the sacrifice. Somebody had to fall, of course, but it's a shame that you should be the victim. I'd thought you too wise to tumble into that trap." "Then you think it is a trap?" asked the southpaw, feeling the blood hot in his cheeks. "Of course it is! The Stockings have been undermined and blown wide open. They've got as much show this year as a snowball would have in a baker's oven. They'll land in the subcellar with a sickening thud, and there's no way of stopping them." "No way--" "No way under heaven, take it from me! I've been in the business long enough to know what I'm talking about. It takes years to build up such a fighting machine, and, when it's torn to pieces, rebuilding is bound to be another job of years. The public won't understand. You'll get the kicks and the curses. As a successful pitcher you've been a favorite; as an unsuccessful manager you'll be about as popular as a rusty spike in an automobile tire. Crowds are always fickle. When a man's winning they howl their heads off for him; but let him strike a losing streak and they scramble like mad to pelt him with mud and brick-bats." "But somebody has to build up a team." "Somebody has to start it and get the blame. He's the goat. Where's Burkett, who managed the Wolves before I came in? Out in the Border League. Where's Ashton and Gerrish, who struggled with the Blue Stockings before Kennedy stepped in on the turn of the tide? One's running a cigar store in Kewanee, the other's drinking himself to death in Muskegon; both left the game with busted reputations and broken hearts. Where's McConnell, who tried to make a ball team of the Hornets before Brennan's day? He took to the coke, and his friends are paying for his keep in a private bug-house. Where's Decker, who had a crack at the Panthers--But what's the use! There's no surer way for a good man to ruin his career than to manage a losing ball team." "In that case," said Locke, "I've got to manage a winner."