CHAPTER I
AN UNEXPECTED OFFER
Lefty Locke gave the man a look of surprise. The soft, bright moonlight was shining full on Weegman’s face, and he was chuckling. He was always chuckling or laughing outright, and Locke had grown tired of it. It was monotonous.
“What do you mean?” the pitcher asked. “Tinware for Kennedy! I don’t believe I get you.”
Weegman snapped his fingers; another little trick that was becoming monotonous and irritating. “That’s poor slang perhaps,” he admitted; “but you’ve been in the game long enough to understand it. Collier is going to tie the can to old Jack.”
Lefty moved his chair round on the little vine-covered porch in order to face his visitor squarely. Frogs were chorusing in the distance, and the dynamo in the electric power house on the edge of the town kept up its constant nocturnal droning.
“I could scarcely believe you meant just that,” said the star slabman of the Blue Stockings soberly. “Being Charles Collier’s private secretary, and therefore to a large extent aware of his plans, I presume you know what you’re talking about.”
“You can bet on it,” laughed Weegman, leaning back and puffing at his cigar. “I’m the man Collier left to carry out his orders regarding the team. I have full instructions and authority.”
“But I’m sure Kennedy has no inkling of this. I correspond with him regularly, and I know he expected a new contract to sign before Mr. Collier went abroad. He wrote me that the contract was to be mailed him from New York, but that he supposed Collier, being a sick man, forgot it at the last moment.”
Weegman took the cigar from his mouth, and leaned forward on the arm of his chair. “A new manager of the right sort is hard to find,” he stated confidentially, “and Collier wasn’t ready to let go all holds until he had some one else in view at least.”
Locke uttered a smothered exclamation of incredulity. “Do you mean to tell me that Charles Collier was handing old Jack Kennedy a deal as deceitfully crooked as that?” he cried. “I can’t believe it. Kennedy has been a faithful and loyal manager. Three years ago, when Collier secured the controlling interest in the club, his bad judgment led him to drop Kennedy and fill his place with Al Carson. You know what happened. Carson made a mess of it, and old Jack was called back at the last moment to save the day. He did it and won the championship for the Blue Stockings by a single game. Since then–”
“Come now!” chuckled Weegman, snapping his fingers again. “You know you were the man who really won that championship by your air-tight pitching. Why do you want to give somebody else the credit? Kennedy merely went in as a pinch hitter–”
“And pounded the only run of the game across the rubber. No matter how air-tight a pitcher’s work may be, to win games the team behind him has got to hit. Kennedy was there with the goods.”
“That’s ancient history now. What has he done since then? As a player, he’s a has-been. He’s lost his eyes so that he can’t even bat in the pinches now. His sun has set, and he may as well retire to his farm and settle down for old age.”
“He hasn’t lost his brains,” asserted Locke warmly. “Playing or pinch hitting is a small part of a manager’s business. Once since then he’s copped the bunting for us, and last year it was hard luck and injury to players that dropped us into third position.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Weegman good naturedly. “You ought to stand up for him. It shows the right spirit. He gave you your chance–practically plucked you from the brambles. But,” he supplemented disparagingly, “he was desperately hard up for twirlers that season. You were sort of a lucky guess on his part. Save for the fact that he’s never been able to win a world’s championship, old Jack’s been picking four-leaf clovers all his life. He’s too soft and easy-going for a manager; not enough drive to him.”
It was Lefty Locke’s turn to laugh, but his merriment held more than a touch of irony. “Jack Kennedy has won pennants or kept in the first division, at least, with teams that would have been fighting for the subcellar under any other manager. When meddlers have not interfered he’s always been able to get the last ounce of baseball out of every man under him. While he has handled it the club has always been a big paying proposition. What he has done has been nothing short of miraculous considering the niggardly policy forced upon him by those in power. It’s the lowest-salaried team in the league. We have men getting twenty-five hundred or three thousand who should be drawing down twice as much, and would be with any other winning Big League club. Only a man with Kennedy’s magnetism and tact could have kept them going at high pressure, could have kept them from being dissatisfied and lying down. What they’ve accomplished has been done for him, not for the owners. And now you tell me he’s to be canned. There’s gratitude!”
“My dear man,” chirruped Weegman, “baseball is business, and gratitude never goes far in business. Granting what you say may have been true in the past, it’s plain enough that the old man’s beginning to lose his grip. He fell down last season, and now that the Feds are butting in and making trouble, he’s showing himself even more incompetent. Talk about gratitude; it didn’t hold Grist or Orth, and now it’s reported that Dillon is negotiating with the outlaws. You know what that means; our pitching staff is all shot to pieces. If the players were so true to Kennedy, why didn’t they wait for their contracts?”
