The train had been in motion for twenty minutes or so, and the occupants of the Blue Stocking special car were beginning to settle down for the evening when Al Carson appeared in the doorway of his stateroom. For a moment or two he stood there, frowning, his glance passing indifferently over the brisk poker game with its several interested onlookers which was going on near him, past the lounging players engaged in idle talk or immersed in newspapers. There was a sudden tightening of his lips, however, as his eyes finally came to rest on the sprawling figure of Lefty Locke, hunched in the corner of a seat well forward. A moment later the manager stood looking down on the southpaw, with narrowing lids.
“Been whining around a petticoat, have you?” he sneered.
Lefty’s eyes veered suddenly from the window to the manager’s face.
“What’s that?” he snapped.
“I said you’d been whining around a skirt, complaining that I was using favoritism with the pitchers. You weren’t man enough to put up your kick to me; you had to go bawling about it to Collier’s daughter, so she’d work her father—”
“That’s a lie!” rasped Locke, his face crimson. “A lie, and you know it!”
His eyes were flashing, his fists were doubled; every muscle of his big frame had suddenly become tense and hard as a panther’s crouching for a spring. The manager himself turned suddenly livid with anger. For a moment, to the three or four players sitting near enough to observe what was going on, it looked as if another second would bring about a rough-and-tumble scrap.
Just in time, however, Carson, realizing the danger of the situation, managed to get control of his temper.
“Is that so?” he sneered. “Perhaps you can explain how Miss Collier came to draw the old man’s attention to the fact that you hadn’t pitched a straight game in over a week.”
“Not being a fool,” Lefty snapped back, “it’s quite possible she discovered it by simple observation. Everybody else is wise to the fact that ever since you took hold of the team you’ve been using me to win games for the precious pitcher you’re so stuck on.”
Carson caught his breath swiftly and turned white with rage. “What the deuce—” he blustered. “Who—”
“You know well enough who I mean,” retorted Locke. “If you don’t, then ask any man on the team, and you’ll find out quick. I’m not kicking; I’m simply stating facts. You’re manager of this team, and you’ve got the right to run it any way you choose. But there’s just this, Mister Carson: in future we’ll dispense with any more talk about my currying favor with the owner, either through his daughter or in any other way. When I’m ready to kick about anything, I’ll come to you and do it. Believe me, you’ll know it!”
“What do you mean by such talk?” frothed Carson, his face purple. “I’ll fine you—”
“Fine and be hanged!” defied Locke. “Only shut up! You started this, not I. You asked a question, and I answered, so cut out the hot air and leave me alone. I’m sick of the sound of your voice.”
For a second or two the manager stared in dazed fury at the scowling face of the young pitcher, and then—he wilted. Lefty’s remarks had hit the nail on the head only too accurately, and Carson knew it. He and Pete Grist had been on friendly terms for a number of years, and Grist had been favored by the manager at every opportunity, though Carson flattered himself that it had been done too skillfully to be obvious. The shock of discovering the contrary, and also the realization that Locke was apparently in a state of mind which necessitated handling with gloves, caused the official to back water. With a snappy retort or two, and a very fierce expression, he turned on his heel and sought the seclusion of his stateroom.
The slamming of the door was followed by a hush more eloquent than many words. The altercation had been conducted with no soft pedal on, and almost every word had been audible the entire length of the car. For a few minutes even the poker game was in abeyance, as the men glanced significantly at one another with lifted eyebrows, shaking their heads.
“He’s sure enough sore,” whispered Kid Lewis. “Maybe it isn’t the girl, after all.”
“Mebbe,” agreed Rufe Hyland, glancing at his cards again. “Lucky Grist’s in the smoker, or there’d be a rough-house for fair.”
“What he said was nothing but gospel,” protested Nelson. “Carson’s been favoring Pete every chance he got. Lefty won two games for him within a week, and didn’t get any credit; for Grist, going to the bad, was drawn with us leadin’ by a run.”
“Oh, sure! I know that. But Petie’s a peppery gink, and no fellow likes to hear that kind of truth blabbed out in so many words.”
Of course, Grist heard all about it before many hours had passed. In the dressing room on the Specter grounds, next afternoon, he made some sneering remarks on the subject in a loud tone, which could not help reaching Locke’s ears. Instantly Lefty retorted savagely. Grist snapped back viciously, and but for the swift interference of the other men, there would have been a fight then and there.
Five minutes later Carson appeared and curtly informed the southpaw that he was to start the game.
It was in this mental condition that Lefty received instructions to pitch. He made no comment beyond a surly nod, but his teammates glanced dubiously at one another, and shook their heads.
One and all were conscious of an unpleasant feeling of suspense and unrest. It was as if they were walking on the thin crust of a volcano which was likely at any moment to burst into violent eruption.