THE TELEGRAM
The days passed without the truth coming to light. At first Brennan set
about systematically interviewing every man who had been on the field
that day, but without avail. Having failed to arrive at the truth in
this manner, and other and more important matters coming up to take
his time, he seemed to drop the subject. Those who knew him, however,
realized that it would always remain tucked away in some corner of his
brain until he had finally solved the mystery.
The work of training proceeded rapidly and successfully to its
conclusion as the end of March approached. Each afternoon the cubs
fought out their losing battle with the regulars on the diamond. The
latter were getting into splendid shape, and their opponents had almost
forgotten what it felt like to win a game.
Nevertheless, they never gave up, or slackened their efforts, for the
net was drawing closer and closer about them day by day. Every now and
then a youngster would drop out of the race. He was not yet ready for
the big game, and had either been sold by the manager, farmed out to a
minor league, or released unconditionally.
Of the cub pitchers, only two remained, Locke and Elgin. They were both
remarkably good in their way, and the other players were divided as to
their relative merits. The almost universal conclusion was that Brennan
would keep both with the organization unless something unexpected
occurred to give him reason for changing his mind.
Lefty worked strenuously without a let-up. He knew his doubtful points
almost as well as the manager himself, and strove with all his might to
correct them.
Hard as the labor was physically, the southpaw found it anything but
disagreeable. He was well liked by most of the regulars and a great
many of the cubs. In Buck Fargo he found a real chum whom he came to
admire and think better of every day. When the diminishing number of
players made a readjustment of rooms at the hotel desirable, Locke
accepted with alacrity the big backstop’s invitation to come in with
him, an arrangement which proved pleasant and satisfactory.
With Bert Elgin and his little group of cronies, the southpaw had
nothing whatever to do. The former had apparently resigned himself to
the inevitable, and, since it looked as if both cub pitchers were going
to be retained, he seemed to have given up his efforts to injure his
rival.
There were just two things which marred Lefty’s pleasure and absolute
peace of mind. The first was Jim Brennan’s attitude of noncommittal
impassiveness. Try as he would, the southpaw found it impossible to
break down the barrier of reserve between them. No matter how good
a showing the cub might make on the field, he never succeeded in
eliciting a word of praise from the manager. The latter always gave
the young twirler an impression of withholding judgment, a feeling
that he was continually searching for something in Locke which he was
constantly expecting but had failed to find.
At first Lefty thought it was simply his ordinary manner. Then, when he
noticed the manager unbend time after time to others, he reached the
conclusion that Brennan had never forgotten the circumstances of the
recruit’s arrival at training camp, and that he still felt resentment
at the manner in which Locke had been, as it were, thrust down his
throat.
The explanation of this latter fact had been absurdly simple. Lefty
learned in a roundabout way that Jimmy Toler’s letter had traveled to
Ashland, Tennessee, and drifted on to the Texan town a couple of days
after the busher’s arrival. It seemed incredible that any man could
harbor such a thing so long, but Brennan was peculiar in many ways, and
Lefty could think of no other reason for his conduct.
The other matter which marred his contentment was the fact that Janet,
while actually in the same State, was just beyond his reach. It was
more tantalizing than if she had remained in that far-away New England
town. They corresponded regularly, of course, but letters are always
more or less unsatisfactory. Only once had he obtained permission to be
away over Sunday, and Brennan’s grudging acquiescence to his request
made him resolve never to repeat it.
And so the time passed until there remained less than two days more at
Ashland. On the twenty-fifth the training quarters would be deserted,
and the teams, separating, would commence their homeward march by easy
stages and different routes, playing exhibition games with minor-league
organizations along the way.
The days had sped with such swiftness that Lefty could scarcely believe
the end to be so near when he arose that morning, and could say that
to-morrow they would start. There was no doubting the fact, however,
and, what was more, that very afternoon, a game had been arranged with
one of the most prominent teams of the Southern League. It was the
first chance the Hornets had been given to play against outsiders since
that brief, disastrous contest with the Broncs, and they were agog with
eager anticipation. The Flamingoes were in quite a different class from
the bush organization of so-called Texans, and the game was likely to
be exceedingly close. Lefty was to start off on the slab, so Brennan
had briefly informed him the afternoon before. The youngster wondered
whether the manager had any special motive in picking him.
As the squad started for the field after breakfast, Lefty discovered
that he had forgotten his glove, and hurried upstairs for it, telling
Fargo that he would be along shortly. When he came down he raced
through the lobby and almost upset a small boy in uniform who was
coming up the steps.
“Say, mister,” the latter inquired, as he recovered his balance, “is
Tom Locke inside?”
“That’s my name,” Lefty answered swiftly. “What is it?”
The boy drew a yellow envelope from his pocket, and Locke snatched it
with that queer, sinking feeling which an unexpected missive of the
sort usually arouses. Tearing it swiftly open, he brought forth the
sheet and unfolded it with a single motion.
As his eyes took in the contents at a glance, he drew his breath
swiftly, his face turning a shade less brown. The message had been sent
from Billings, Texas, that morning. It read:
Father is dying. Come at once. I am all alone.
JANET.