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."