Lefty Locke Pitcher-Manager

" he cried, his face beaming like the morning sun in a cloudless sky. "Is it possible that after many weary moons I have dropped anchor in the same harbor with

e the other members of the Wind Jammers pressed neare

he hour when we should stand face to face and exchange genuflections and greetings. And whenever a smooched and tattered months-old newspaper would drift in from civilization, with what eager and expectant thrill

be the original Cap'n Wiley of whom I heard so many strang

few fleeting years I have been in pursuit of fickle fortune in far-off Alaska, where it was sometimes so extremely cold that fire froze and we cracked up the congealed flames into little chunks which we sold to t

rays, I thought the letter was a hoax. At first I was tempted not to answer it, and when I did reply it

kable group of listeners. "It has always been my contention that there are just as good players to be found outside the Big League as ever wore the uniform of a major. I have held that hard luck, frowning fate, or contumelious circumstances have conspired to hold these natural-born stars down and prevent their names

nything else, you ought to get some sport out of it.

ere. When my projector is working up to its old-time form, I find little difficulty in leading the most formidable batters to

ll start the g

, Wiley. Like yourself, he's not doing as much pi

with regret. "That's what the Big Leagues do to a good man; they burn him out like a pitch-pine knot. I've felt all along that the Blue Stockings were wor

ng Weegman a look. "But I think I'll be able to shake so

time in recent history you have a chance for your white alley; the Federals are giving you that. If you

ing but the soreheads and deadwood of organized baseball, which will be vastly better off without the deserters. Cripples and has-beens

ll ruffled or disturbed. "Mr. Weegman," he said, "is showing pique because I have not seen fit to sign up as manager of the Blue

man, plunging his hand into an inner pocket of

nderstand you have a clever pitcher in the ma

c answer. "I'll give you a chan

a dea

be of his ear, and he does his talking with his prehensile di

ur scouts have scoured the bushes fro

any baseball scouts i

ound Jones

for a team

up there! I

mer season there's something doing in that line. Why, even modern dances have

s Jones origin

self he won't tell. He's mysterious, you understand; but his beautiful work on the slab has c

d like to give h

nd for hours lamping the denizens of the burg. Outside baseball, strange people seem to interest him more than anything in the world; but once he has taken a good square look at a person, hencefort

be," agre

he Swede outfielder, "that Yones

"that's him. Turn your binnacle lights on him, Lefty; behold th