“It’s a raw deal for Kennedy,” he asserted in conclusion; “and I believe it’s wholly of Weegman’s devising. I’m sure, when the season ended, Collier had no idea of changing managers. There isn’t a more resourceful, astute man in the business than old Jack.”
“You’re always thinking of others, Phil,” she said. “How about yourself? What will happen to you if you don’t come to Weegman’s terms?”
“Hard to tell,” he admitted frankly. “In fact, I’ve been wondering just where I’d get off. If my arm fails to come back–”
She uttered a little cry. “But you’ve been telling me–”
“That it was growing better, Janet, that’s true. But still it’s not what it should be, and I don’t dare put much of a strain on it. I don’t know that I’d last any time at all in real baseball. Weegman is wise, yet he offered me a contract to pitch and to manage the team. On paper it would seem that he had retained one star twirler for the staff, but if I failed to come back we wouldn’t have a single first-string slabman. As a manager, I would be sewed up so that I couldn’t do anything without his consent. There’s a nigger in the woodpile, Janet.”
She had put the magazine aside, and clasped her hands in her lap. He went on:
“It looks to me as if somebody is trying to punch holes in the team, though I don’t get the reason for it. Following Jack Kennedy’s advice, I’ve invested every dollar I could save in the stock of the club. As Weegman says, it’s doubtful if the stock would bring fifty cents on the dollar at a forced sale to-day. Collier has met with heavy financial reverses in other lines. He’s sick, and he’s in Europe where no one can communicate with him. Is somebody trying to knock the bottom out of his baseball holdings in order to get control of the club? It looks that way from the offing.”
“But you,” said Janet, still thinking of her husband, “you’re not tied up with Weegman, and the Federals have made you a splendid offer. You can accept that and land on your feet.”
He smiled, shaking his head slowly. “There are several reasons why I don’t care to follow that course. The first, and strongest, is my loyalty to Jack Kennedy, the man who gave me a square deal. Then I don’t care to bunko anybody, and unless my arm comes back I won’t be worth the money the Feds have offered for my services. Lastly, I’m not sure the new league is going to be strong enough to win out against organized baseball.”
“But you’ve said that they seem to have plenty of money behind them. You’ve said, too, that their plan of dealing directly with players, instead of buying and selling them like chattels or slaves, was the only system that gave the players a just and honest deal.”
“That’s right,” affirmed Lefty. “Slavery in baseball is something more than a joke. The organization has been one of the biggest trusts in the country, and it has dealt in human beings. It has been so that when a man signed his first contract he signed away his right to say what he would do as long as he remained in the game. After that he could be bought, sold, or traded without receiving a dollar of the purchasing or trading price. He had to go where he was sent, regardless of his personal likes, wishes, or convenience. He had to accept whatever salary a manager chose to give him, or get out. Even if his contract had expired with one manager, he couldn’t go to another and make a bargain, no matter how much the other manager was willing to give him; the reserve clause held him chained hand and foot. To-day, if the powers chose, I could be sent down to the minors at any old salary the minors chose to pay. I could be sold, like a horse or a dog, and if I didn’t like it I could quit the game. That would be my only recourse.”
“It’s terribly unfair,” said Janet.
“Unfair? That’s a tame word! On the other hand, the Federals are dealing directly with the players. If they think he’s worth it, they give a man a good salary and a bonus besides. The bonus goes to the player, not to the club owner. Added to that, the Federal contracts provide that a club must increase a player’s salary at least five per cent. each year, or give him his unconditional release, thus making it possible for him to deal with any other club that may want him.”
“It’s plain your sympathy is with the Federals.”
“If they’re not trying to jack up organized baseball and sell out,” said Lefty, “I hope they come through.”
CHAPTER IV
THE MAGNETIZED BALL
“What are your plans?” asked Janet, after they had discussed the situation in all its phases. “Have you decided on anything?”
The southpaw answered: “I’m going to put Jack Kennedy wise. I’m going to write him a letter to-night, and I shall send him a telegram as soon as the office opens in the morning. It’s up to him to get in communication with Collier if there’s any way of doing it. You have not received a letter from Virginia lately?”
Virginia Collier, the charming daughter of the owner of the Blue Stockings, was Janet’s closest friend.
“No, I have not heard from her in over three weeks, and I don’t understand it,” returned his wife.
“She seems to have stepped off the map, along with her father. The whole business is mysterious. Why don’t you write her at once, explaining what is going on, and send the letter to her last address?”
“I will.”
“It may not reach her, but there’s no harm in trying. Meanwhile, I’ll get busy on mine to Kennedy. There doesn’t seem to be much chance to spike Weegman’s guns, but it’s worth trying.”
Locke had the knack of writing a succinct letter; the one he wrote old Jack was concise, yet it was clear and complete. Within two minutes after opening it, doubtless Kennedy would know as much about the situation as did Lefty himself. Yet it was probable that, like the pitcher, the manager would be mystified by the surprising and seemingly sinister maneuvers of Bailey Weegman.
Following Lefty’s advice, Janet wrote to Virginia Collier.
Locke rose early the following morning and posted the letters for the first outward mail. He sent a telegram also. Returning past the Magnolia Hotel, to his surprise he perceived Collier’s private secretary sitting on the veranda, smoking. Weegman beamed and chuckled.
“Morning,” he cried, waving his cigar between two fingers. “The early bird, eh? Been firing off a little correspondence, I presume. Our communications will reach Kennedy in the same mail; and I wired him, too. Quite a little jolt for the old man, but it can’t be helped. Of course, he’ll have the sense to bow gracefully to the inevitable, and that will clear the air. Afterward, perhaps, you may change your mind regarding my offer.”
“Perhaps so,” returned Lefty pleasantly. “But if I do, I shall be a fit subject for a padded cell.” The agreeable look was wiped from Weegman’s face as Locke passed on.
Some time after breakfast Lefty returned to the Magnolia to learn if Cap’n Wiley and his ball players had arrived. Approaching, he perceived a queer assortment of strangers lounging on the veranda, and from their appearance he judged that they were members of the team. Many of them looked like old stagers, veterans who had seen better days; some were youthful and raw and inclined to be cock-a-hoop. There was a German, an Italian, an Irishman, and a Swede. One was lanky as a starved greyhound, and apparently somewhere near six feet and six inches tall from his heels to his hair roots. Another was short and fat, and looked as if he had been driven together by some one who had hit him over the head with a board.
In a way, these strangers in Fernandon were most remarkable for their attire. With scarcely an exception, the clothes they wore were weird and fantastic samples of sartorial art; various, and nearly all, prevailing freaks of fashion were displayed. With colored shirts, flaring socks, and giddy neckties, they caused all beholders to gasp. They were most amazingly bejeweled and adorned. With difficulty Locke suppressed a smile as his quick eyes surveyed them.
Near the head of the