THE PURLOINED LETTER
It was rather difficult for Lefty to tell what sort of an impression
the day’s work had made on Jim Brennan. That astute individual was
thoroughly proficient in the art of keeping his thoughts to himself,
and it was almost impossible for any one to guess what was going on in
his mind. Those who knew him well had long ago ceased to guess.
He had watched Locke all day as a cat does a mouse, picking at the
least fault, hurling criticisms in that brusque, snappy way of his at
the slightest opening, and never once giving his cub pitcher a word of
praise. There seemed to be nothing in this to encourage the southpaw.
Nevertheless, Lefty knew that he was in good form. He felt that between
his work of to-day and that disgraceful exhibition of twenty-four hours
ago there was a vast gulf, and he was comforted. And when, along toward
the middle of the afternoon, he began to notice quite lengthy periods
of silence on the part of his mentor――spaces of five minutes, or even
longer, in which the manager could find absolutely nothing to carp
at――his spirits began to rise.
On the way back to the hotel several of the older men who had been up
before him during the afternoon paused and made brief, half-joshing
comments on his improvement. Stillman was enthusiastic in his praise,
and even one of his brother reporters delivered himself of a more
guarded opinion, practically to the same effect. To be sure, the
silence of the other cubs was deep and absolute. Not one of them opened
his head to Lefty on any subject, much less to tell him that he was
doing well. Evidently the ban against him was still in force.
In spite of this, however, Locke was feeling more hopeful, more
assured, more satisfied that he could make good, than at any time since
his arrival at training camp.
“I’ll write Janet to-night,” he thought, while he was dressing, “and
tell her all about it. I should have done it before, but things have
been pretty uncertain.”
Janet might have been a sister, but――she wasn’t. Any one observing the
length of the letter Lefty wrote after dinner, and the pains taken
with its composition, would have guessed that instantly. A fellow
rarely sends more than four pages of closely written hotel paper to a
relative, and as for tearing up a nearly finished sheet, and rewriting
it――well, that settled the question.
When the epistle had been carefully sealed and the envelope directed,
Locke found he was out of stamps, and purchased some at the desk. He
had just affixed one to the letter when Buck Fargo appeared and pounced
on him.
“Been looking for you, kid,” the backstop announced, taking Locke by
the arm. “Come out with me for a little walk. I want to talk to you.”
Locke acquiesced readily and, without turning, reached back for the
letter he had left lying on the desk. He was so taken up with wondering
what Fargo had on his mind that his action was really little more than
mechanical. His fingers closed over an envelope which he thrust into a
side pocket, and the two walked briskly away.
Unfortunately for Lefty the proprietor of the Hatchford was of an
economical turn of mind. Having been considerably fretted by every Tom,
Dick, and Harry in Ashland dropping in and using his letter paper _ad
libitum_, he instituted the system of having a supply at the desk, and
nowhere else. When a guest of the house wanted stationery he helped
himself. A townsman could do the same, if he wished. But the mere fact
of having to face the argus-eyed clerk, instead of slipping quietly to
a well-furnished desk, acted as a strong deterrent.
When Lefty bought his stamps the supply of envelopes had dwindled to
three, two of them stuck inside the flap of the third. They lay close
beside his letter on the desk, and when he reached back without looking
it was the three empty envelopes, stuck together as one, that he picked
up and put into his pocket.
His carefully composed epistle lay, face upward, where he had left it.
The clerk was busy with his books, and no one else happened to see
it until Bert Elgin, as immaculately garbed as he had been the night
before, on his way to the street, paused to light a cigarette.
The match flared up and he had conveyed it halfway to the weed between
his lips when suddenly the motion was arrested, and he stared downward
with widening eyes. For an instant he could scarcely believe his
senses. Before him lay a letter addressed to the very girl whose charms
had so smitten him the night before, and on whom he expected to call
within fifteen minutes.
There was no doubt about it. “Miss Janet Harting,” written in a strong,
masculine hand, stared up at him like a basilisk. Some one in this
very hotel was corresponding with her――some one who did not know that
she had arrived at Ashland the night before; for the address was a New
England town.
“Kingsbridge!” The word came hissing through his clenched teeth as he
remembered suddenly that this was the name of the team on which Lefty
Locke had pitched during the past summer.
The forgotten match burned his fingers, and he flung it to the floor. A
second later, however, he reached over to where a box of them lay, and
struck one, leaning close against the desk as he did so. When he moved
away, the cigarette alight, his face was still slightly flushed, but
his expression was once more composed. The letter had disappeared.
Once in the street, he hurried along, scarcely able to restrain his
impatience. Twice he hesitated by a lighted window, but each time the
place seemed too public for his purpose. At last he stopped before a
little store on a corner, glanced swiftly and suspiciously around, and
drew the letter from his pocket.
For a moment he stood scowling at the superscription before he ripped
the envelope open. The frown deepened as he noticed the length of the
inclosure, and then, with narrowed eyes, he sought the signature.
“Hazelton!” he muttered hoarsely. “I knew it!”
Rapidly, with now and then a nervous glance around, his eyes flew
over the closely filled pages. The letter had evidently been written
by one very good friend to another. There was little in it which any
one might not have read, yet its very tone, with those references to
past experiences together, to mutual friends, to hopes and fears and
interests held in common, sent Bert Elgin off into a spasm of rage.
He had plumed himself on having, with great dexterity and presence of
mind, obtained the inside track with quite the most fascinating girl
that he had ever seen, only to discover that the man he hated with
every fiber of his being seemed to have the inside track.
“Confound him!” he cried, crushing the letter between his fingers, “I
can’t seem to get away from him.”
For a moment he stood there hesitating, his fingers busy tearing the
purloined letter into shreds. Then he turned the corner, and began to
walk hurriedly toward High Street.
“I’ll beat him yet!” he vowed. “I’ll put him out of the running here,
or I’m a dub!”