THE DISCHARGED WAITER
Lefty drew one sleeve across his perspiring face, and stared at the
square, sturdy back of the retreating manager.
“Whew!” he muttered. “And then some!”
On second thought, he withdrew the comment. Jim Brennan had left
nothing to be said, nothing to the imagination. In stinging phrases,
which bit like acid and made the pitcher wince and grit his teeth, he
had told his latest recruit exactly what he thought of such a disgrace
among ball players.
He applied to Locke every epithet in his repertory――he had a vocabulary
the width and breadth and startling nature of which was unusual even
among Big League managers――and Lefty was obliged to stand there and
swallow everything. He had nothing to say, no excuse to make for his
behavior. He might have explained everything by telling Brennan of the
glass of beer which he was certain had been drugged. But that would
have put the whole crowd in bad, and Lefty was no telltale.
So he set his jaws, clenched his fists, and took everything the manager
had to say, fully expecting the tirade to end in his being thrown out
of the squad.
When Brennan finally concluded his spirited monologue with a pyrotechnic
burst to the effect that he proposed taking the blankety-blank bonehead
personally in hand the next morning for the purpose of beating a little
elemental baseball into his thick skull, and then strode away with
eyebrows twitching, it was a full minute before Lefty realized that it
had not come. He had not been fired!
“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he exclaimed aloud, his eyebrows drawn together
in a puzzled frown. “Why didn’t he do it? What use can he have for me
after to-day?”
For a while he stood there, trying to fathom the reason. Then he gave
it up and started for the gate. The others had long since left the
park, and he made his way back to the hotel alone, took his shower, and
came down to the dining-room ten minutes late.
For all the comfort he got out of his companions Lefty might as well
have been alone at the table. From the beginning of the meal to its
long-drawn-out finish not a single word was addressed directly to him.
The others talked over him, around him, at him, but never to him. Among
themselves, but in tones which plainly showed that their remarks were
aimed at Lefty, they discussed that miserable first inning in detail,
pointing out how different the result would have been with any one but
a quitter in the box. They made many other scornful comments, and the
southpaw was hard pressed to maintain a stolid, impassive demeanor. Not
for the world would he have them guess how much they were hurting him.
By supper time the determined ostracism of his cub companions had so
worked on Lefty that his nerves were raw. He even caught Stillman
regarding him queerly, and that was the last straw. He felt, somehow,
that if he did not confide in some one he would blow up; so, after
supper, he cornered his classmate in the lobby, and poured the whole
story into his astonished ears.
When Locke had finished, Stillman gave a long whistle of incredulous
astonishment.
“That’s the rottenest thing I ever heard of!” he exclaimed indignantly.
“No wonder you went to smash that way. But look here, old fellow, are
you certain about the drug part of it? Isn’t it possible that you had
some sort of an attack of indigestion or something?”
Locke shook his head. “No indigestion would ever give a fellow feelings
like that. Besides, I was fit as a fiddle before I went into that card
game. Something was put into that beer, Jack; take my word for it.”
“But who would do such a thing? You say Elgin you’re sure wasn’t even
in the room. Did you notice anything queer about any other man’s
behavior?”
For an instant Lefty hesitated, the thought of Fargo’s odd remark, with
its odder inflection, in his mind. The next instant he gave a start as
the big backstop strolled lazily up and paused beside his chair.
“Sort of off your feed to-day, ain’t you, kid?” Fargo inquired, with a
grin.
“I certainly am,” Lefty answered. He hesitated a second, and then went
on with deliberate purpose: “I reckon midnight poker games with all the
fixings don’t agree with me.”
“Cut out the fixings and the poker won’t hurt a baby,” the catcher
returned swiftly. “It’s all right for the regular bunch to make fools
of themselves swilling hard stuff if they want to, but you kids can’t
afford to do that sort of thing. I was watching you last night and
wondering if you was going to fall for that nonsense.”
A flash of sudden comprehension leaped into Locke’s mind and brought
the color swiftly to his face.
“So that was why you said I’d had enough!” he exclaimed.
Fargo looked slightly puzzled. “Sure! Why did you think I said it?”
Lefty’s face was brick-red and his eyes dropped before the steady, open
scrutiny of the catcher. “I――didn’t realize you were――paying so much
attention to me,” he stammered. “I might have known, though, when you
struck out to-day――to――to help me out. That was good of you, Fargo.”
The backstop laughed. “Chase that notion out of your nut right off,
son,” he chuckled. “I ain’t that crazy――yet. Reckon I must have been a
bit off my feed, too, or else you took a spurt while I was up to the
plate. I s’pose the old man sailed into you good and proper. He looked
dangerous when I saw him heading your way after the game.”
Locke explained briefly that the manager had raked him over the coals
in a manner which left nothing to be desired. “I thought sure he’d end
up by firing me out on the spot,” he confessed in conclusion.
“Not him,” grinned Fargo. “He’s too sharp. You want to toe the mark,
though, from now on. He’ll have them snappy optics of his on you every
minute of the day to see whether this was a fluke or your regular way
of doing things. You’ll have to show him, that’s all.”
As the backstop strolled off, Lefty’s eyes followed him for a
moment. He had been a fool to suspect for an instant that this big,
rough-and-ready, but thoroughly straight, dependable fellow could be
mixed up in anything so underhanded.
Stillman, whose trained mind had missed no point in the conversation,
quickly broke the silence.
“You surely didn’t think he had anything to do with it?” he questioned.
“I couldn’t understand why he said something he did last night,” Lefty
explained. “I was an idiot, of course.”
“You certainly were. Buck Fargo is one of the squarest men in the
crowd, even if he is a little rough outside. He’d do anything in the
world for a fellow he likes, and you’re mighty lucky he’s taken a fancy
to you.” He paused for an instant, his brow furrowed thoughtfully.
“Look here, old fellow,” he went on slowly, “why don’t you get after
the man who served those drinks! I’ll bet he knows a thing or two, and
you ought to be able to sweat it out of him.”
Lefty’s eyes brightened. “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “That’s a good idea,
Jack. I shouldn’t wonder if he did. At least it’ll be worth trying. He
ought to be on duty now.”
Without further delay, he arose and walked over to the desk. Though he
did not know the fellow’s name, he remembered perfectly what he looked
like, and the clerk recognized his description at once.
“Oh, you mean George Miller? Why, the proprietor fired him this
morning, Mr. Locke. He was stewed last night, and had a holdover this
morning. He’s left the hotel, and I don’t know where you can find him.”
Lefty turned from the desk, with a shrug. “That’s settled,” he thought
disconsolately. “Why didn’t I think of it before? I suppose I wasn’t
thinking of anything this morning, though.”
As he walked back to where the newspaper man sat, he saw Bert Elgin
crossing the lobby toward the door. For an instant he was moved to
brace the fellow then and there and accuse him of playing that dirty
trick the night before. Almost as quickly, however, he realized how
futile that would be. Though Elgin was the only man with a motive
strong enough to make him suspected, Lefty had no shred of proof
against him.
“Let him go,” the latter muttered frowningly. “I haven’t got anything
on him――yet. I’ll be hanged if I don’t think he was at the bottom
of it, though, and if I don’t dig up the truth somehow, I _am_ a
bonehead.”