Chapter II: The Man with the Queer Eyes

At the stranger’s matter-of-fact reference to a Big League organization which was almost at the top of the tree, Nelson’s jaw sagged, and for a second he sat staring at the brown-haired young man in dazed incredulity.

“Is that so?” he sneered again, recovering himself. “On Jim Brennan’s pitching staff, are you? What might be the name you sail under?”

“The same one I took with me to the Blue Stockings,” was the sharp retort. “Tom Locke.”

For a moment there was silence as the two men stared intently at each other. Though he betrayed nothing of what he felt, Lefty was almost startled at this first real glimpse of the stranger’s eyes. A moment before he would have called them black, but now they had lightened strangely, as if behind the iris glowed a baleful, almost uncanny fire. There was something so weirdly fascinating in the transformation that the Big League pitcher was unconscious of everything else until Nelson broke the silence.

“Lefty Locke!” he exclaimed triumphantly at last. “So you’re that bird, are you?” He turned promptly to the Englishman, who sat gaping and bewildered. “Tethridge, old man,” he said, “let me make you acquainted with a fine specimen of what we was just talking about――one o’ them college dudes who makes his living――an’ a mighty good one, at that――off’n professional baseball, but who’s too ashamed of it to play under his own name.”

Lefty’s eyes narrowed slightly. “My reasons for not playing under my own name are certainly no affair of yours,” he said. “At least, I don’t go around blackguarding my profession and every one connected with it.”

“Did I say a single thing that wasn’t true?” demanded Nelson hotly.

“Only about three-quarters of your remarks, that’s all,” returned Lefty. “It’s the same old bunk you hear every now and then from the fan with a grouch. Because organized baseball is conducted on a big scale and with some outside betting upon it, it’s crooked. I couldn’t help hearing all you said, and just about every statement you made was――”

“Gospel, an’ nothing else,” broke in Nelson angrily. “That ticket business in the post season a year ago was so raw it had every newspaper in the country hollering――you can’t deny that.”

“I don’t deny that the ticket sale was badly managed,” returned Locke. “You noticed probably――since you’re so observing――that the speculators didn’t have a show last October.”

“Mebbe not,” snapped Nelson; “but what did happen? The whole thing was cut and dried from the very start. The public was worked to the limit. Whenever there was a chance of the Cubs cinching the pennant before the full seven games had been played, and the limit of gate receipts raked in, then one of their boys would throw a game just to――”

“Ridiculous!” broke in Lefty. He was on his feet now, leaning lightly against the back of the seat ahead of him, with both hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets. Though seemingly quite cool and indifferent, there was a dangerous glitter in his brown eyes, and he was apparently oblivious to the half-dozen other passengers, who had left their seats and moved closer, attracted by the argument.

“Ridiculous!” he repeated emphatically. “You’re talking drivel. How could such a thing be done? How could a world-series game possibly be thrown? With two such organizations as the ones fighting it out last fall, what you claim is an absolute impossibility. You, as a ball player, ought to know it as well as I.”

Nelson glared in a cold fury. “The Trojans hit Woodby all over the lot in that fifth game――which never happened before or since,” he growled angrily. “If that wasn’t done a-purpose to throw the game――”

“Shucks!” derided Lefty. “Do you think he was deliberately throwing away over a thousand dollars bonus? Do you think he wanted the distinction of losing the world’s championship for his club? The whole match was fair and square from beginning to end, and organized baseball is as clean and decent a sport as there is.”

“Ah, cut it!” broke in Nelson roughly. His big, muscular hands were tightly clenched; his strange eyes glared balefully; his face expressed eloquently the rage he felt for this cool, confident young man who held such an enviable position in major baseball, and who was quietly disproving every one of the busher’s contentions with an ease and finality which was maddening. “You’re a great piece o’ cheese, ain’t you, butting into a private conversation where you ain’t wanted! S’pose you take the bench and try how it ’u’d feel to mind your own business for a spell!”

Lefty straightened up. His face was somewhat flushed, for there was just enough truth in Nelson’s remark to strike home. “If you want to keep a conversation private it’s a good idea to refrain from the brand of stuff you’ve been reeling off by the yard in a voice that everybody in the car could hear. You’re the sort of critic who hunts out the worst possible example he can find and judges a whole big class by that exception. I’ve heard a few soreheads in the grandstand who talked like you, but I certainly never expected to run against a player――even from the bushes――who blackguarded his profession as you do, and tried to make the sort of stuff you’ve been handing out pass as the truth.”

Nelson leaped to his feet with an imprecation. “You paper-collar dude!” he snarled. “Mebbe you think you can call me a liar and get away with it, but I’ll show you!”

He lunged suddenly across the back of the seat, the whole weight of his body behind his hard fist. If the blow had landed on Lefty’s chin, as was intended, the altercation would have ended instantly. It happened, however, that Locke moved just at the right moment. Whether it was by accident or design the scattering spectators could not determine. They only knew that Nelson’s fist shot harmlessly over the pitcher’s shoulder, and the next moment they beheld Lefty standing quietly in the aisle, facing his antagonist.

“You quitter!” cried the latter, leaping out from between the seats. “You needn’t think you’re going to get away. I’ll――”

“Cut that out, young feller!” sounded unexpectedly in a voice of authority. “No scrapping allowed on this train.”

A hand gripped Nelson’s shoulder with no gentle touch. Still sputtering, the busher twisted around, to behold the stalwart conductor, who was accompanied by a square-shouldered brakeman.

“Cut it, I tell you!” repeated the official sharply, observing the look of indecision on Nelson’s face. “This kind of thing don’t go here. Get me?”

Evidently the aggressor did. For a second or two he stood glaring darkly at the conductor from those uncanny, evil-looking eyes. Then, with an angry growl, he shook himself free, and stepped back beside Tethridge.

“Wait!” he growled, his angry glance shifting to where Locke stood quietly in the aisle. “I’ll get you yet, an’ get you good, when there ain’t anybody to hide behind.”

Lefty made no answer. The threat did not disturb him greatly. His lips curved a little at the corners, and there was a whimsical flicker of amusement in the eyes which rested inquiringly on the conductor’s face.

“If you’ve finished your cigar, Mr. Locke,” suggested that official, in a very different tone from the one he had been using, “would you mind going back to the Pullman? This drunk seems to have it in for you bad, and if――”

“I ain’t drunk!” exclaimed the indignant Nelson. “I’m aiming to get square with that gink for calling me a liar, an’ I will if――”

The conductor waited to hear no more. Though quite able to preserve peace in an emergency, he never lost a chance to use softer measures when they availed. In the present instance, the removal of the famous pitcher to another car would apparently accomplish his purpose, so he lost no time in bringing that about. With a friendly hand on Locke’s arm, and keeping up a flow of pleasant conversation, he made his way down the aisle.

Lefty accompanied him without protest. He disliked anything in the nature of a public rumpus, and was glad to bring the distasteful encounter to an end. At the same time he could not shut his ears to the stream of loud-mouthed taunts which followed him down the car. They brought a touch of color to his cheeks. It was not altogether easy to preserve that attitude of unconsciousness, but he managed it.