WITHOUT GRATITUDE
“Well, it worked all right, kid,” remarked Buck Fargo as he caught up
with Lefty on the way out to the field. “I’ll guarantee the old man
didn’t even ask you a question, did he?”
“No. I was waiting for him to brace me, but it never came off. What the
deuce did you tell him?”
Fargo grinned. “The truth――only not quite all of it,” he chuckled.
“Wonder how our friend Elgin’s going to get out of it?”
Lefty hazarded no guess. He had more than a suspicion that his old
acquaintance would manage to evade the responsibility somehow. That had
always been his strong point, for he was not overburdened with scruples
about sticking to the letter of the truth.
Fargo explained briefly what he had told Brennan, and then dropped back
to his own crowd, leaving Locke alone. The latter was just turning into
the gate of the field when some one touched his arm, and, turning, he
saw Bert Elgin beside him, a frown of anxiety on his thin face.
“Look here,” the man began abruptly, “Brennan’s just put it up to me
about last night, and I had to give him a song and dance to steer him
off. He’s mad as a hornet, and I couldn’t very well tell him I was
mixed up in that fool business. I wanted to put you wise, so if he asks
you, your story can fit in with mine.”
Locke’s eyes were fixed coldly upon the other’s face. “And what was the
story you told him?” he asked shortly.
“Said I was down in front with Ross, and got these scratches getting
out of the place. Didn’t know anything about what started the muss, or
see the fellow who――”
“And you expect me to back you up in this lie?” Lefty broke in, his
eyes narrowing. “You’ve got another guess coming, Elgin. I came mighty
close to lying for you once, and it’s the last time.”
Elgin’s face darkened. “You’ll blab it all to him, then?” he burst out.
“I might have known you wouldn’t let slip a chance like this to get
back at me. You always were a――” He stopped abruptly and bit his lip, a
slow flush rising in his face.
Lefty’s eyes flashed ominously. “Well?” he snapped. “Let’s have it.
What were you going to say?”
Elgin’s gaze dropped to the ground, and he kicked a pebble awkwardly.
“Nothing,” he mumbled. “I――wasn’t thinking――of what――you did for me
last night.”
Lefty’s lips curled scornfully. “Don’t let that worry you,” he
retorted. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it to save my self-respect,
and because you were one of the boys against a crowd of muckers. You
don’t owe me anything. Get that? I don’t want you indebted to me. As
for this story you told Brennan, it’s up to you. I won’t go out of my
way to put him right, but if he asks me questions I’ll tell him the
truth.”
Elgin threw back his head, furious under the lashing contempt of the
other’s voice.
“If you’re such a good little boy,” he sneered, “how do you explain
traveling under a name which isn’t yours? Strikes me that’s a lie, all
right.”
“That’s my business,” returned Lefty curtly. “Anything more?”
“No,” snarled Elgin; “but if Brennan gets wise through you, I’ll settle
your hash for good and all.”
Lefty shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “Try it,” he laughed. “If
you don’t have any better luck than you did the last time, I guess I’ll
survive.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked across the field,
leaving Elgin glaring after him in speechless rage.
For a moment or two Lefty was conscious of an unpleasant feeling, more
like a bad taste in the mouth than anything else. He had not really
expected any fulsome expressions of gratitude from Bert Elgin. He was
quite sincere in not wishing the man to feel indebted to him in the
slightest. And yet, inconsequentially enough, when it was all over he
could not help wondering how any one could be so lacking in a sense of
decency. At least the fellow could have kept his mouth shut, if nothing
else.
The whole matter was swept swiftly out of his mind, however. Brennan,
still somewhat peevish at his lack of success in reaching the bottom
of the riot affair, was decidedly short of temper, and he started the
day’s practice with a rush and vim which kept everybody on the jump.
“Get a hustle on you, Locke!” he snapped, as Lefty approached at a
dogtrot. “I want to see what some of the cubs can do with a stick,” he
went on, in a lower tone. “Get out there and loosen up a bit; a little
smoke, you know. You was full enough of it yesterday.”
Lefty caught the ball with outward calm, but as he turned and walked
out to the pitcher’s box he groaned to himself. He had been hoping
that he might be spared this to-day, for he had a bruise on his left
shoulder as big as a silver dollar, and his whole upper body was stiff
and sore from last night’s experience.
There was nothing to do but grin and bear it, however, unless he
wanted to rouse Brennan’s suspicions. While the cub batters were being
gathered in, he tried warming up a little, but had no more than sent
two balls over before he was brought up sharply by the manager’s roar:
“Stop that, and get down to business!”
The first delivery went so high that the cub backstop had difficulty in
pulling it down. The second was equally erratic. Lefty flashed a swift
glance at the stocky manager, whose face was set in a fierce scowl, and
decided that he would have to take a brace at any cost.
With an effort which sent a stinging twinge of pain through his bruised
shoulder, he whipped over a speedy straight one, which the batter
missed, following it by a drop that was quite as deceptive. Brennan’s
scowl relaxed slightly, but more than once during the succeeding
twenty minutes it deepened again; for Lefty managed to intersperse
wild pitches with good ones in a manner which could not help being
exasperating to one who knew nothing of the cause.
“That’ll do!” growled the manager, at length. “You’re a winner, you
are! What’s the matter with you to-day?”
Lefty mumbled some excuse about not feeling very fit, and Brennan’s
lips curled. “Huh!” he snorted. “Delicate, are you? Rot! Hey, Cy, come
over and give this cub a few lessons in first principles.”
There was a general grin from the watching group of cubs, and Lefty
felt his cheeks burn. He recovered himself swiftly, however, and, at
Brennan’s order, took his place with the batters. The fact that he
smashed out a clean single the first time he was up before the Hornet’s
star pitcher went far toward restoring his own self-respect, even
though it had no visible effect on the Argus-eyed manager.
Once during the course of the morning’s work Lefty caught Buck Fargo’s
eyes fixed upon him, and as he was leaving the park toward noon the big
backstop stepped out from the group of regulars and came over to him.
“Looks like you were getting in bad with the old man,” he remarked
seriously. “First impressions go a long distance with him. I’ve been
thinking mebbe we made a mistake in keeping quiet about last night.
He’d roar for a bit, but he couldn’t sling it into you like he would if
you’d started that rough-house.”
“You think it would be a good idea to tell him?” Lefty asked gravely.
“That would put him wise to what was the matter with you.”
The cub pitcher’s lips twitched. “Don’t you think it would be more
sport to see if he could find it out by himself?” he suggested.
Fargo let out a guffaw and brought one fist down on Locke’s shoulder
with a force which made him wince.
“For a cub, you ain’t half bad, kid,” he chuckled.
That was all he said. The next instant he had turned away and rejoined
his companions, leaving Lefty to jog on back to the hotel alone.
But somehow, though he was alone, the cub was far from feeling that
depressing isolation of the day before. The morning seemed to have been
spent principally in stirring up an old enmity and getting in bad with
the manager. But these things did not worry the bush pitcher as they
might have done if he had not fancied that he had also made a friend,
and one who was well worth while.