BERT ELGIN’S LUCK
Bert Elgin was decidedly a ladies’ man. A pretty face in any of the
front-rows of the grandstand never escaped his attention, and, no
matter in what part of the country his team was playing, he seemed to
have an almost uncanny faculty of scraping an acquaintance with the
best-looking girl in town.
His teammates growled and grumbled enviously, making sarcastic
references to luck and bluff and working the rah-rah racket to
perfection, but Elgin remained undisturbed by their comments. There was
no questioning the fact that he could be very charming when he chose
to exert himself. He had a ready tongue, the knack of subtle flattery,
and knew how to utilize the glamour which most girls throw about a
prominent athlete who has had a college education.
Before he had been three days in Ashland Elgin maneuvered an
introduction to Miss Molly Wendell, a charming young person with a
penchant for baseball, and obtained permission to call. Within a
fortnight he had availed himself three times of that permission, and
they were on very friendly terms, indeed.
This evening he arrayed himself with especial care, and sallied forth
about half past seven, alone, from the hotel. Miss Wendell lived in
the best residential section of town; but, as he made his way thither,
Elgin was not so occupied with thoughts of the pleasure in store for
him as to be blinded to the feminine charms of any chance passers-by.
That was not his way.
Having bestowed appreciative and very open glances on several
attractive factory girls hurrying along the main street, the cub
pitcher struck into a quieter thoroughfare which led toward his
destination. He had almost reached High Street when a rickety, swaying
hack, looking as if it might have seen its best days in some Northern
city a decade ago, passed him and came to a stop in front of the corner
house.
Before the negro driver had time to open the door the horse――a big,
raw-boned animal――took it into his head to back. Quite undisturbed and
rather amused at the coon’s flow of language, Elgin watched the ancient
vehicle tilt dangerously until it seemed as if another moment would see
it topple over. Then he came opposite the door, glanced curiously into
the hack, and the next instant became transformed.
With a single leap he reached the horse’s head, gripping the bit with
muscular fingers and dragging the animal forward a step or two.
“Get down here and hold the beast, uncle!” he ordered. “You’re a nice
one to take people out behind a dangerous animal like this. Hustle,
now!”
The colored man hurriedly descended, muttering something about
“interferin’ w’ite trash,” and sulkily obeyed. Elgin sprang to the
door, hat in hand, and held it open.
“It’s all right now, sir,” he said deferentially. “Just take my arm, if
you please, and let me help you out.”
An elderly man, white-haired, frail-looking, and dressed in a
clergyman’s suit of black, obeyed tremblingly. He was followed much
more swiftly by a young girl, a glimpse of whose lovely face had been
the cause of that sudden transformation in Bert Elgin.
She barely touched the pitcher’s arm as she leaped from the cab, the
color bright in her cheeks, a glint of anger in her wonderful eyes.
“It’s outrageous bringing us up with a horse like that!” she exclaimed
indignantly. “You know I asked particularly if he was gentle, and you
said he was.”
“’Deed he am, leddy,” the negro affirmed hastily. “Dis hyer am jes’ his
playful way. If dat gemman hadn’t come――”
“If he hadn’t so kindly come to our help,” the girl put in emphatically,
“we should have been upset.”
As she stepped forward to pay the cabman she cast a glance of gratitude
at Elgin, which started the blood tingling through his veins.
“What a peach!” he thought fervently.
Nothing of this appeared on the surface, however. Instinctively he
schooled himself to retain the same respectful, deferential attitude he
had assumed from the first. Still bareheaded, he seemed to be devoting
all of his attention to the father, who was palpably nervous and upset
by the incident. It was not until she turned from the negro and came
back to them that his eyes met hers.
“I cannot thank you enough for what you have done,” she said quickly.
“My father is not very strong, and if the cab had upset it would have
been simply dreadful.”
“It was really nothing,” Elgin protested. “I saw the horse was a
bad-tempered brute, and got to his head in time. I’m glad I happened
to be passing.”
“You cannot be more thankful than my daughter and myself,” the older
man put in rather weakly. “Your quick wit undoubtedly saved us from
a serious accident. Just now I am too tired after a long journey
to express my gratitude properly, but I hope you will give me the
opportunity at some future time. I am the Reverend John Harting, and I
shall be staying here a week or more with my friend, Henry Forsythe.”
He held out a slim, white hand, which the ball player clasped firmly
yet not too strenuously.
“My name is Bert Elgin,” the younger man returned in respectful tones.
“I’ll be very glad indeed to come and see you some evening before you
leave town.”
“Yes, yes,” the clergyman agreed, with impatience. “Janet, my dear, I
think we had better go in. I am feeling――a little faint.”
Without a word Elgin took one arm solicitously. The girl sprang to the
other side of her father, and in silence they helped him up the steps
of the veranda. A big, broad-shouldered man of middle age answered the
ring, and, amid the bustle of greeting which followed, Elgin tactfully
departed.
At the gate he paused, glancing back at the closed door, the remembrance
of a pair of wonderful violet eyes and a perfect mouth curved in a
rather absent smile still vividly in his mind.
“A queen!” he said aloud. “Molly Wendell can’t touch her for a minute.”
Slowly he moved on a few steps; then he chuckled: “That was a cute
trick, all right, and pulled off to perfection. I ought to hand that
old bag of bones a square feed for giving me the chance. Will I call
to-morrow night and let the old geezer thank me? Will I? Ask me!”