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 broad steps leading up to the veranda sat a somewhat stocky but exceptionally well-built man of uncertain age. He was almost as swarthy as an Indian, and his dark eyes were swift and keen and shrewd. His black hair was graying on the temples. His coat and trousers, of extravagant cut, were made from pronounced black-and-white-striped material. His fancy waistcoat, buttoned with a single button at the bottom, was adorned with large orange-colored figures. His silk socks were red, his four-in-hand necktie was purple, and the band that encircled the straw hat cocked rakishly upon his head was green. He was smoking a cigar and pouring a steady flow of words into the ear of Bailey Weegman, who made a pretense of not noticing Locke.

“Yes, mate,” he was saying, “old man Breckenridge was the most painfully inconsiderate batter I ever had the misfortune to pitch against. Smoke, curves, twisters, slow balls, low balls, and high balls–they all looked alike to him. Now I have a preference; I prefer a high ball, Scotch and carbonic. But it made no difference to Breck; when he put his fifty-five-ounce ash wand against the pill, said pill made a pilgrimage–it journeyed right away to some land distant and remote and unknown, and it did not stay upon the order of its going. When it came right down to slugging, compared with old Breck your Home-run Bakers and Honus Wagners and Napoleon Lajoies are puny and faded shines. And he always seemed able to make connections when he desired; if he rambled forth to the dish yearning for a hit, there was no known method by which the most astute and talented pitcher could prevent him from hitting.”

“Quite a wonder, I must admit!” laughed Weegman, in high amusement. “Rather strange the Big Leagues didn’t get hold of such a marvelous batsman, isn’t it?”

“Oh, he was on the roster of some Class A team at various times, but he had one drawback that finally sent him away to the remote and uncharted bushes: ‘Charley horse’ had him in its invidious grip. A spavined snail could beat Breck making the circuit of the sacks, and cross the pan pulled up. Yet, with this handicap, the noble old slugger held the record for home runs in the Tall Grass League. Naturally I had heart failure and Angie Pectoris every time I was compelled to face him on the slab. Likewise, naturally I began meditating with great vigor upon a scheme to circumvent the old terror, and at last my colossal brain concocted a plan that led me to chortle with joy.”

“I am deeply interested and curious,” declared Weegman, as the narrator paused, puffing complacently at his weed. “Go on.”

Locke had stopped near at hand, and was listening. Others were hovering about, their ears open, their faces wreathed in smiles.

“It was a simple matter of scientific knowledge and a little skulduggery,” pursued the story-teller obligingly. “I possessed the knowledge, and I bribed the bat boy of old Breck’s team to perform the skulduggery. I sent to the factory and had some special baseballs manufactured for me, and in the heart of each ball was hidden a tiny but powerful magnet. Then I secretly furnished the rascally bat boy with a specially prepared steel rod that would violently repel any magnet that chanced to wander around into the immediate vicinity of the rod. I instructed the boy to bore Breck’s pet bat surreptitiously when the shades of night had fallen, insert the steel rod, and then craftily plug the hole. And may I never sail the briny deep again if that little scoundrel didn’t carry out my instructions with the skill of a cutthroat, or a diplomat, even! Nature intended him for higher things. If he isn’t hanged some day it won’t be his fault.

“Well, the next time old Breck brought his team to play against us upon our field, I used the magnetized baseballs. I was doing the