"Madden be hanged!" rasped Frazer, biting off the end of a cigar he had taken from his case. "I'm the manager! Madden isn't always butting in and paring down expenses, like Collier." He pulled vigorously at the cigar, while the attentive waiter applied a lighted match. Lefty had declined a cigar. He smoked occasionally, and would have done so now, but to do so would indicate an inclination to settle down and continue the dickering, and he had decided to make a bluff at bringing the affair to an end. He called for the check, and insisted on paying the bill for both. "Sorry I've put you to so much trouble, Frazer," he said. "It was Kennedy's idea that I might do business with you, but it's evident he was mistaken. I've got some other cards to play, and time is precious." He settled the bill and tipped the waiter. Old Ben sat regarding Locke thoughtfully, rolling out great puffs of smoke. The younger man was about to rise. "Hold on," requested the manager of the Wolves. "You're a regular mule, aren't you? How do you expect to make a trade without compromising at all? You won't even meet me halfway, confound you! You--" "I'll own up that I was a bit hasty," said Lefty, showing a nervous desire to get away. "I made that five-thousand offer without thinking much, but you understand I'm rather desperate. If Collier were here, he'd probably put the kibosh on it--if he found out before the trade was closed. After that he'd have to stand for it, no matter how hard he kicked. Let's forget it." Then Frazer showed that peculiar trait of human nature that makes a person doubly eager for something that seems to be on the point of slipping away. In his mind he had already fitted Herman Brock into that gap in center field that had given him more or less worry. The adjustment had pleased him; it seemed to balance the team to a hair. It would give him renewed assurance of another pennant and a slice of the World's Series money. It was Courtney's hitting in the last series that had enabled the Wolves to divide the big end of that money; and, like Courtney, Brock was a terror with the ash. "You mule!" said Frazer. "Let's go up to your room and fix up the papers. It's a trade." CHAPTER XIX A FLEETING GLIMPSE Locke betrayed no sign of the triumph that he felt. Had Frazer held out, he would have given the ten thousand asked, and considered himself lucky to get a catcher and a third sacker, both young men, and coming, in exchange for an outfielder who could not possibly last more than another season or two. Collier might squirm when he learned of the trade, but perhaps he could be made to see the desperate necessity of it. The thought that Bailey Weegman would gnash his teeth and froth at the mouth gave Lefty an added thrill of pleasure. The first move to circumvent Weegman and the scheming scoundrel behind him, Garrity, had been put through.