"Well, what is your bottom price?" demanded Skullen. "Put it down to the last notch." "I will. I'll give you bed-rock figures. Comprehend me, mate, I'll pare it right down to the bone, and you can't buy Jones a measly, lonesome cent less. I'll sell him to you for just precisely fifty thousand dollars." The scout's jaw dropped, and he stared at the little man, who stared up at him in return, one eyelid slightly lowered, an oddly provocative expression on his swarthy face. Slowly the look of incredulous disbelief turned to wrath. The purple color surged upward from Mit's bull neck into his scarred face; his huge hands closed. "What are you trying to hand me, you blamed little runt?" he snarled. "Where's the joke?" "No joke at all, I hasten to postulate," said Wiley. "The scandalous fact is that I couldn't sell him to you at all without scuttling and sinking my sacred honor. But human nature is frail and prone to temptation, and for the sum of fifty thousand dollars I'd inveigle Jones into signing with you, even though never again as long as I should dwell on this terrestrial sphere could I look my old college chump, Lefty Locke, in the countenance." Skullen's astonishment was a sight to behold. He made strange, wheezing, gurgling sounds in his throat. Presently one of his paws shot out and fastened on Cap'n Wiley's shoulder. "What's that you're saying about Lefty Locke?" he demanded. "What are you giving me?" "Straight goods, Mit," stated the southpaw serenely, as he stepped forward. "Too bad you wasted so much time making a long and useless trip." Skullen came round with something like his old deftness of whirling in the ring when engaged in battle. Never in all his life had his battered face worn an uglier look. For a moment, however, he seemed to doubt the evidence of his eyes. "Locke!" he gasped. "Here!" "Yes, indeed," returned the new manager of the Blue Stockings pleasantly. "I reckoned you would be ahead of me, Mit; but, as a man of his word, Wiley couldn't do business with you. And without his aid there was little chance for you to make arrangements with Jones." Skullen planted his clenched fists upon his hips and gazed at the southpaw with an expression of unrepressed hatred. His bearing, as well as his look, threatened assault. Lefty dropped his traveling bag to the ground, and tossed the overcoat he had been compelled to wear in the North upon it. He felt that it would be wise for him to have both hands free and ready for use. CHAPTER XXII A DOUBTFUL VICTORY "Who sent you here?" demanded the belligerent individual. "What business have you got coming poking your nose into my affairs? You'd better chase yourself sudden." Instead of exhibiting alarm, Lefty laughed in the man's face. "Don't make a show of yourself, Mit," he advised. "Bluster won't get you any ball players; at least, it won't get you this one. I've already made a deal for Jones."