GUILE
“Really?” exclaimed Janet Harting, her eyes sparkling. Then she laughed.
“It’s luck you didn’t tell father. He has an idea that professional ball
players aren’t quite respectable.”
Bert Elgin bent slightly forward, a hurt expression in the eyes fixed
upon her face. During the fifteen minutes in which he had labored
strenuously to ingratiate himself with her father, and succeeded
beyond his hopes, he had gathered, by skillful probing, the impression
that the older man was just the sort to look askance on professional
athletics. Not a hint of this now appeared on the surface, however. His
voice was regretful, with just the proper touch of indignation in it.
“I hope you don’t share his prejudice, Miss Harting?” he said quickly.
“Not at all,” the girl hastened to assure him. “I adore baseball, and
could never understand why a man shouldn’t take it up just as he would
any other profession. It’s much better paid than many, and I’m sure
it must be a great deal pleasanter than being cooped up all day in a
stuffy office.”
Elgin’s sigh of relief was unmistakable. “I can’t tell you how glad
I am to hear you say that,” he returned, his face clearing. “Your
father is a clergyman of the old school, and I can quite understand his
prejudice. But professional baseball to-day is very different from what
it was in his time. There isn’t a cleaner, decenter sport going, or one
more free from crookedness. Of course, there are people who look down
on it. There are even players”――his voice took on a sneering tone――“who
go into it under fictitious names, but they’re cads and bounders. I
notice they’re not ashamed to draw their salary checks on the dot.
I’ve played ball ever since I left college, and I can truly say, Miss
Harting, that I’ve never once had reason to regret my choice of a
profession.”
For a moment there was silence. The girl’s cheeks were faintly flushed
and she was plucking absently at the fringe hanging from the upholstered
chair arm.
“I’m sure you haven’t, Mr. Elgin,” she murmured presently. There was
another momentary pause before she raised her eyes to his face. “I
believe that what you say about a man’s playing under a false name is
generally true, but don’t you think that once in a while there may be a
perfectly good reason for it?”
The pitcher shrugged his shoulders. “Once in a thousand times, perhaps,”
he admitted. “It’s easy enough to invent a plausible reason, but I’ve
noticed invariably that fellows do it because they’re ashamed, not of
playing professional ball, but of having their friends know it. There’s
an instance of this right here in the Hornet squad, a chap who graduated
from Princeton the year after I did. He tried making his living as a
lawyer, fell down hard, and then took up baseball. There isn’t an
earthly reason why he shouldn’t use his own name, and yet he’s
masquerading as Tom Locke.”
“Locke!” the girl gasped, staring in startled amazement. “You don’t
mean to say that Phil Hazelton is _here_?”
Elgin’s jaw dropped most realistically, and he drew his breath sharply.
“You――know him?” he faltered.
“Of course I do. Why, he pitched all last summer for the Kingsbridge
team. That’s where I’ve always lived, you know, until father’s
health began to fail, and he was sent South by one of his wealthy
parishioners. Philip Hazelton is a perfectly splendid fellow, and we’re
great friends.”
Elgin’s face was the picture of confusion. “I――beg your pardon, Miss
Harting,” he stammered. “I――I had no idea――you knew him, or I should
never have mentioned his name.”
His expression was so contrite that the girl laughed merrily.
“Of course you didn’t,” she returned. “How should you when I haven’t
even told you where I lived? I’ll forgive you, though, for otherwise I
might never have known he was here. I’m sure, Mr. Elgin, if you knew
Phil Hazelton as well as I do you’d admit that he was the thousandth
man you spoke of a while ago who has a perfectly legitimate reason for
not playing under his own name.”
“Very likely,” Elgin returned hastily. “I don’t doubt that you’re
right.”
His voice was quite lacking in conviction, however. It was the tone of
one agreeing out of mere politeness and because he was anxious to get
away from a disagreeable subject.
Miss Harting, being keen of perception, noticed this, and her smile
faded.
“You don’t really mean that?” she said abruptly.
Elgin spread out his hands depreciatingly. “I wish you wouldn’t,” he
returned. “A fellow can’t help having his opinions, you know. Let’s
change the subject.”
“But I don’t want to change the subject,” she retorted warmly. “I
insist on your telling me why you don’t agree with me.”
The pitcher’s long lashes drooped over his eyes, and he bit his lip.
“I knew Hazelton very well at college,” he began slowly. “We were
friends until――certain things――came up which showed me――” he threw
back his head, and looked her full in the eyes. “I can’t do it!” he
burst out. “Please don’t ask me, Miss Harting. I’ve said more now than
I should have. No matter what my opinion of him may be, I won’t talk
about a fellow behind his back.”
His attitude of manly embarrassment was so well done that the girl
was completely deceived. She was angry at herself for having led the
conversation into this channel, but her estimation of this man who
would say nothing against another with whom he was evidently not on
friendly terms, increased by leaps and bounds.
They chatted on various other topics for a little while, but the
conversation could not fail to be slightly constrained, and Elgin soon
took his leave.
After he had gone Janet Harting returned to the parlor and stood for a
space leaning thoughtfully against the mantel.
“It’s absurd!” she exclaimed aloud presently. “There’s been some
misunderstanding between them. I won’t believe that Phil is anything
but straightforward and absolutely honorable. He couldn’t do or think a
mean thing. I’ll forget that I ever heard a whisper against him.”
But this was not quite possible. In spite of her determination, a
nagging little doubt returned more than once to trouble Janet Harting.
Somehow, she could not forget that Bert Elgin had known Hazelton at
college――known him for years probably, with chances for seeing phases
of his character which the intimate life at a big university alone can
give; while her own acquaintance with that selfsame individual was
limited to nine brief months.