NOTHING ELSE POSSIBLE
“Any answer?”
Lefty raised his head and stared stupidly at the boy for an instant.
Then he came to himself.
“Yes! Give me a pencil――quick!”
Snatching the stub from the other’s hand, he turned the message over,
placed the paper against the side of the building, and hastily scrawled
a few words.
“There!” he exclaimed, thrusting it at the boy; “send that off right
away. Don’t lose a minute. Here. Keep the change.”
It was a silver dollar he handed the boy. Without waiting for thanks,
he darted back into the hotel, hastily secured a time-table, and found
that there was a train leaving in less than half an hour. It was only
after he had reached his room and begun to strip off his baseball
togs that he realized he must let Brennan know in some way of what he
planned to do.
“There’s no ’phone at the park,” he muttered, throwing a shoe into a
corner. “I haven’t time, anyway.”
He tore off his stockings, flung shirt and trousers on the floor, and
made a dive for his street clothes.
“Still, they’ll all be back here for dinner,” he went on aloud. “If I
leave a note with Buck, he’ll put the old man wise. It’s tough! Poor
little girl!”
His voice broke just the least bit, but he went on rapidly with his
dressing, and in less than ten minutes was ready to go. He gave no
thought to the consequences of his leaving in this manner and at this
time. Janet had called him for help; he must go to her. Besides, even
Brennan, though he might growl and grumble a little, would understand
how impossible it was for him to take any other course.
Finding a sheet of paper, Lefty hastily scrawled a note to Buck,
telling his chum where he had gone and why, and asking him to inform
the manager. Having folded the paper and written Fargo’s name on
the outside, he placed it on the middle of the table, where the big
backstop could not fail to see it the instant he entered the room.
That finished, he snatched his hat, and darted down the stairs without
waiting for the elevator. At the station he had nearly fifteen minutes
to wait, but at last the train pulled in.
Lefty thought that the journey would never end. The train seemed to
crawl along at a snail’s speed, stopping at every little hamlet by the
way. He blamed the doctor at Kingsbridge for having suggested such an
impossibly out-of-the-way place as Billings. He kept looking at his
watch till he might better have held it in his hand. He bought a paper,
and tossed it away unread. He opened a magazine, only to fling it aside
impatiently. And all the time the thought of Janet, alone and helpless
in this terrible situation, never left his mind.
At Flat Rock Junction he had to change to another road. There was an
exasperating wait of three-quarters of an hour, during which he nearly
wore a rut in the wooden platform. Another weary, interminable hour
followed; but at last, shortly after one, he flung himself off the
still-moving train at Billings, and dashed up the main street.
The air was soft and warm and caressing. Trees and shrubs were bursting
into leaf; flowers were everywhere. Here and there a bird caroled
joyously, and the sound stabbed Lefty like the thrust of a knife. How
could any living thing be joyful when her father lay dying?
Rounding a corner, he scarcely dared look at the house where they had
taken lodgings. Perhaps he had come too late. Perhaps it was all over.
He reached the wooden gate and thrust it open. A rustle of skirts
sounded on the vine-clad porch, the quick catching of a breath, then a
cry of glad surprise:
“Why, Lefty!”
She started up from the rocking-chair, her face pink and her eyes
sparkling. A little smile curved the corners of her tender mouth,
bringing out the dimple which had always fascinated him.
The man stared up in petrified astonishment. What did it mean? Was he
dreaming, or had she gone daft?
“Why, Lefty!” she exclaimed again. “This is splendid! How did you ever
manage to get away?”
He swallowed hard and, without knowing what he did, wiped beads of
perspiration from his forehead.
“I came,” he gasped. “Your――father, Janet?”
A little frown of perplexity came into her forehead.
“Father?” she repeated. “Why, he’s all right. The springs are doing him
no end of good. He’s taking his nap just now. Did you――”
“You didn’t send me a telegram this morning, then?” Locke interrupted
in a strange voice.
“No, of course not. Why should I? I wrote you last night, but it was
only―― Lefty! What is it? For goodness sake, tell me what has happened.”
The skin over his jaws was hard as marble. The blood had rushed into
his face, turning it a dull crimson under the brown, and bringing out
a throbbing vein in his temple in bold relief. His lips were pressed
tightly together, and the eyes fixed on the girl were not his eyes.
They were wide open and almost black, full of cold, consuming wrath.
They frightened Janet Harting, and made her step back involuntarily.
“Lefty!” she cried again. “What is it? What makes you look so?”
For an instant he did not answer. He had realized the bitter truth. The
telegram was a forgery, sent for the sole and only purpose of getting
him out of the way at the very time of all others during his baseball
career that he should have been on the job. In a flash an illumination
which comes too seldom to a man told him that Brennan’s reason for
putting him on the slab to-day was in the nature of a final test of his
ability. The other game had shown the manager nothing. This would have
been the ultimate proof of his fitness to be retained as a member of
the squad――and he would not be there to take advantage of the chance.
Swiftly he glanced at his watch, the girl staring anxiously at him
the while. He took out a crumpled time-table. The first train left at
two-twenty. As he thrust the time-table back into his pocket, his face
relaxed a little and a faint smile twisted the corners of his mouth.
“There’s been an unfortunate――mistake, Janet,” he said quietly. “I’ll
come up and tell you about it.”
He had remembered the one consoling feature of the whole miserable
business. Buck would surely find the letter and explain the matter to
Brennan. The manager would doubtless be angry, but, after all, it was
not as bad as if no word at all had been left.