"I should worry and lose my sleep!" was the light retort. "Give me a cigar now, Ben; I haven't felt so much like smoking in a month." Locke slept that night in peace. In the infield there were two big holes left to be filled, short and second; but the reserve list afforded a dozen men to pick from, and it was Lefty's theory that a certain number of carefully chosen youngsters, mixed in with veterans who could steady them, frequently added the needed fire and dash to a team that was beginning to slow down. Herman Brock was gone, but out in Medicine Hat Jock Sheridan had covered the middle garden like a carpet, and had batted four hundred and ten--some hitting! With Welch and Hyland on his right and left, Sheridan might compel the Big League fans to give him something more than a casual once over. But Locke's great pleasure lay in the fact that he had secured a backstop he had not dared to hope for. Even now he could not understand why Frazer had been induced to part with Brick King, the catcher whose almost uncanny skill in getting the very limit out of second-rate and faltering pitchers had lifted the Wolves out of the second division two years ago, and made them pennant contenders up to the final game of the season. There was the possibility, of course, that old Ben believed that King had not thoroughly recovered from the injury that had sent him to the hospital last August; but a broken leg was something that rarely put an athlete down and out indefinitely. "In my estimation," thought Lefty serenely, as sleep was stealing over him, "King has got more brains and uses them better than any backstop in the league." The morning papers had something to say about the deal: