THE MAN IN THE CORRIDOR
“Hang such weather!” grumbled Buck Fargo, gazing disconsolately out of
the dripping window.
It was not a strictly original remark, considering the fact that it
had been uttered, in some form or another, on an average of every five
minutes since breakfast time. Nevertheless, it was fervently echoed
by each one of the players who lounged within hearing distance in the
lobby.
It had been pouring all day, a cold, driving rain, which kept some
forty-odd active, vigorous athletes cooped up in the confines of the
hotel.
It was not so bad in the morning, but by the middle of the afternoon
pool had lost its charm, craps failed to interest; and even the
inveterate poker players were becoming satiated with that game.
“I can feel myself putting on pounds and pounds,” mourned “Splinter”
Jones, one of the outfielders, whose winter of luxurious idleness
had resulted in about fifteen pounds of troublesome and unnecessary
weight. “It’ll set me back a week.”
“Too bad there ain’t a Turkish bath in this blooming village,” yawned
Cy Russell. “If we was only in little old New York you could sit in a
steam room and lose all the weight you wanted to.”
Fargo turned suddenly from the window, his eyes sparkling.
“Gee whiz, Cy!” he exclaimed. “That ain’t a bad idea. Why can’t we fix
up one?”
The pitcher’s eyes widened. “Fix up what?” he inquired. “A Turkish
bath? You talk nutty, Buck.”
“Nix! It’s a cinch! One thing good about this hash house is they’ve
always got plenty of hot water. What’s to prevent our hiking up to one
of the bathrooms, stopping the cracks with towels, and turning on the
hot water full. I’ll guarantee in ten minutes you couldn’t see across
the room. Moreover, the radiators are all red-hot to-day, and if we
wrap Splinter up in blankets and set him down on one in the bathroom,
we’ll see him oozing away to a shadow before our very eyes.”
Jones straightened up in his chair, his lips pursed disapprovingly.
“Not me,” he declared firmly. “Mebbe I’ve done some fool things in my
life, but I never yet set down on a red-hot radiator without my clothes
on, and I ain’t going to begin now.”
“You loon!” grinned Fargo. “Did you think I meant without something
under you to keep you from getting scorched? I ain’t got it in for
you that bad. A bunch of bath towels’ll do the trick and make you so
comfortable you’ll be going to sleep. Come on, boy! Be a sport.”
The others added their persuasions, and at length the stout outfielder
yielded. The thought of parting with five or six pounds at one fell
swoop was irresistible. He presently arose and, escorted by eight or
ten fellows, made his way to the upper regions.
Lefty Locke did not happen to be in the lobby to see them go. He
had gone up to his room soon after dinner, read several chapters in
a volume of Dickens, and taken a sudden notion to write to his kid
brother. By the time the letter was finished and he had pottered around
a little longer, fretting at the downpour and regretting that he had
not been able to keep up the good work commenced on the field the day
before, it was nearly half past four.
“Reckon I’ll go down and scare up somebody for a game of billiards,” he
thought.
As he opened the door and stepped into the hall, he saw the figure of
a man walking briskly away down the corridor. For a moment he paid no
attention to the unknown. Presently something about the set of the
fellow’s shoulders struck him as vaguely familiar, but even then he
would probably have thought nothing of it had not the other swiftly
turned his head, and as swiftly jerked his face around again.
It was George Miller, the discharged waiter who had served Locke that
fatal glass of doped beer two nights before.
Without delay, Lefty started to run. The waiter took to his heels,
also, whirled round a corner toward the servants’ staircase at top
speed, and disappeared.
Sprinting after him, Locke reached the corner just in time to see his
man halfway down the long stretch of carpeted hall. The next instant
a wild yell of pain and rage from somewhere close at hand broke the
stillness with startling abruptness. A door at Lefty’s right was flung
open. Buck Fargo, his face contorted with mirth, rushed out, flung
himself against the door of the next room, and slammed it behind him,
all in the twinkling of an eye.
Lefty, bewildered, had no time even to wonder what had happened. Close
upon the heels of the flying catcher came a strange figure, clad in
blankets and nothing else, and giving vent to a continuous bellow of
rage. He did not halt or pause. The whole impact of his big body struck
Locke squarely, and they landed together on the floor with a crash
which seemed to shake the building.