“WHEN THE CAT’S AWAY”
The liquid refreshments arrived while they were in the midst of an
unusually animated hand. Everybody had dropped out but Cy Russell,
Siegrist, the first baseman, and Lefty. The latter, with three kings
and a pair of tens, was half conscious that Fargo had taken a glass
from the tray and set it down beside him. It was one of those cases,
however, where one gets an impression without really seeing, and he
could not have told afterward whether it was actually the big backstop
who put it down, or the waiter. And when it came to that, he did not
notice whether it was the hotel employee himself who held the tray, or
some one else.
He played his hand for all there was in it, and won the good-sized
jackpot. Siegrist groaned as he flung down three queens and a pair of
eights.
Russell shoved over the chips with a grimace. “I was trying to get by
with two pair, aces up. You don’t work that innocent-appearing face on
me again, kid.”
Lefty chuckled and took a long drink from the glass as he shuffled
the cards to deal. The beer had an unusual flavor, and he sipped it
again, trying to make out what was the matter with it. “Bum stuff,” he
reflected. “Tastes sort of queer.”
As the game progressed, however, he gradually drained the glass without
thinking much about it. He was having unusual luck, and played his
cards with a skill which put him away in the lead of the others.
Presently Hagin sauntered up to the table. “What’ll you have, boys?” he
asked. “Time for a second round.”
Most of them ordered; one or two declined, among them Lefty.
“No, thanks,” Locke said firmly, when Hagin pressed him. “I’ve had
enough.”
“I reckon you _have_ had enough,” put in Buck Fargo, in a tone which
seemed so significant that the cub pitcher glanced swiftly at him.
The big backstop was busy with his cards, and did not look up; but
Lefty noticed that his face was oddly serious. He noticed also the
half-emptied glass of seltzer standing beside Fargo’s scanty pile of
chips, and a sudden qualm struck him.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken that beer, after all,” he said to
himself. “I thought everybody was drinking something in that line.”
A quick survey of the table told him that everybody else was, and,
somewhat reassured, he went on with the game. Perhaps the catcher was
a little peevish because he was losing so heavily. Adversity at cards
brings out the good and bad points of a man’s character better than
almost anything else.
The game progressed. More drinks were brought, more cigars produced
and lighted. No one got befuddled, for the Hornets were a hard-headed
crowd, and each one knew his limit; but there was a general warming up
throughout the room. Joshing and laughter sounded continuously. Now
and then some one would burst into song, only to be sat upon instantly
by three or four others. The tobacco smoke hung in a thick pall midway
between ceiling and floor, stirred fitfully by soft breezes from the
open windows.
For a time Lefty continued to win. Then gradually luck seemed to turn
against him. He still held much the same run of cards, but several
times he made bad errors in judgment. Presently he became conscious of
an extraordinary sensation of lightness in his head, like nothing else
he had ever experienced. It was not especially disagreeable. On the
contrary, it seemed as if his senses had become suddenly more acute, as
if he could play two small pairs so cleverly that he would bluff out
stronger hands. Instead, he lost, and kept on losing.
It was most puzzling and annoying. He could not understand it. That
first odd exhilaration passed in a little while, and was succeeded by a
dull depression. His head began to ache. Was it the smoke? he wondered.
Several times he caught one of the fellows eyeing him curiously, and it
brought him up with a jerk, determined to stick it out and let no one
know there was anything the matter with him.
How long it continued he never knew. For seeming hours he went on his
raw nerve, playing the cards dealt to him instinctively, his whole
being occupied in fighting off a clogging sensation which constantly
threatened his brain like a smothering blanket.
It was Buck Fargo who made the first move to break up, and Lefty could
have hugged him had he not been so taken up in keeping a grip upon his
consciousness.
“Well, fellows, I’m going to hit the downy,” the big backstop announced,
with a cavernous yawn. “Let’s settle up.”
There were protests, of course; but Fargo was firm.
Released from the tension of playing, Lefty sat stupidly staring at the
three red chips in front of him. He was aroused by Russell’s voice:
“Come across with seventeen bucks, Locke. You made a bad finish.”
Without a word, the cub pitcher fumbled in his pocket and drew forth a
roll of bills. The numbers in the corners were blurred and indistinct.
He picked out several at random, tossed them on the table, gathered in
the change Russell handed him, and arose slowly to his feet.
For an instant he stood gripping the chairback. The room was going
around; the floor tilted dangerously.
“What’s the matter, kid?” came in Fargo’s voice. “You look sort of
funny.”
Lefty straightened himself with a great effort. “Nothing,” he said,
with laboriously distinct enunciation. “I’ve got a sort of headache.
The bad air, I guess.”
Then the men drifted over to the other table, bent on breaking up
the game there, and Locke was left alone. He had given up wondering
what was the matter with him. His one thought was to get out of the
room while he could. Slowly he turned and faced the door. A shout of
laughter, followed by the sounds of a good-natured rough-house, told
him that the attention of the others was occupied for the moment. He
let go his hold on the chair, reeled, recovered himself with an effort,
and, with set teeth, slowly, laboriously crossed the room.
It seemed an eternity before his hand touched the panels and fumbled
for the knob. The next he knew he was in the still darkness of the
hall, steadying himself against the wall. Somewhere in his head a
sledge hammer was beating on an anvil. He wondered hazily how long
flesh and bone could stand it. He took a step forward. Where was his
room? Was it on this floor or the next?
At last he remembered, and began a slow, painful progress down the
hall. Several times before reaching the stairs he fell, but at last he
struck the bottom step and began to crawl up on hands and knees.
His room was directly opposite the elevator, or he would never have
reached it. The door was, luckily, unlocked, and he managed to step
in and close it behind him. As his finger instinctively pressed the
electric button close at hand, flooding the room with light, he gave a
sudden stifled cry.
He was to pitch to-morrow in the first practice game of the season.
The remembrance stabbed through his fading senses like a knife. He
had meant to show Brennan what there was in him. He had planned to
strain every effort in order that the manager should forget his first
unfortunate fiasco. And now――
He groaned aloud. Then, with a long, shuddering sigh, he felt his legs
crumple under him. A black curtain fell before his eyes.