AT THE THEATER
When the quartet piled into a taxi about half past six, and started
for an exclusive downtown restaurant, their appearance would have been
a revelation to those who picture a professional ball player as a
pugnacious, rough-mannered individual who fits in well enough on the
diamond but is quite out of his element when he attempts anything in
the social line.
It would have been difficult, in fact, to find four finer-looking
specimens of manhood anywhere. Their faces glowing with perfect health
and physical well-being, they showed not the slightest signs of being
awkward or ill at ease in their evening togs. Add to this the fact
that two of them, Lefty Locke and Billy Orth, were men of unusual good
looks, and it is small wonder that their arrival at the restaurant
caused a little stir of interest among the diners already present.
They were swiftly recognized, of course, and the stir increased to a
bustle; for even society doesn’t often have a chance of studying two
pitchers, the catcher, and second baseman of a national organization at
close range. The four athletes, however, paid scant attention to the
interest they were exciting. They were too well accustomed to that sort
of thing to let it interfere with their enjoyment. They were out for a
good time, and meant to have it, regardless of rubbernecks.
There was nothing in the least boisterous in their behavior. They
laughed and talked and joshed one another, to be sure, but their
manner was not a whit different from that of a dozen other parties
about them. They consumed the well-ordered dinner――conspicuous by the
absence of anything to drink――leisurely. Then, it being close on to
eight, they paid the sizable check, tipped the waiters, and departed,
having shown from the beginning a breeding and a refreshing lack of
self-consciousness which opened the eyes of not a few observers.
The theater being only a few blocks away, they walked, arriving in the
lobby just as the overture was beginning. There was the usual crowd
jostling to get in. As the four friends stood waiting for an usher to
take their checks, Lefty heard his name called in a slightly familiar
voice.
For a second he stared around in a puzzled way, failing to locate the
owner of that voice in the crowd. Dalton’s elbow dug into his ribs,
and Dalton’s voice whispered in his ear:
“The Big Chief! Get busy, kid.”
Then it was that Lefty discovered Charles Collier, the
distinguished-looking owner of the Blue Stockings, standing near the
wall at a little distance; and beside him, more charming than ever in
her evening gown of shimmering white, was his daughter, Virginia.
“You’re just the man I’m looking for,” Collier said, as Lefty stepped
swiftly over and bowed his greetings. “See here, boy, is it possible
that you’re a son of the Reverend Paul Hazelton, who went through
Dartmouth and the New York Theological Seminary, and has a parish
somewhere out in Jersey?”
Lefty’s eyes brightened. “Quite possible,” he smiled. “He’s been in
Summit for the last twelve years. Do you know him?”
“Know him?” echoed Collier emphatically. “I should say I did! Why,
we were chums at college, and kept up our friendship for a number of
years afterward. I must have been wool-gathering. I knew your name
was Hazelton, but somehow the connection never occurred to me till my
daughter suggested it at dinner to-night. I suppose it was because I
couldn’t associate Paul’s son with baseball.”
“Yes; Dad has a perfect horror of the game. He had a friend who was
killed while――”
“Yes, of course. Poor Brandon! It was in our junior year. Your father
could never bear even to see a game after that. I must have a chat with
you about him soon. Just now I’m――”
He paused abruptly, his eyes roving over the immaculate figure of the
young man, and then veering swiftly to his daughter’s face.
“By Jove, Virginia!” he exclaimed. “I don’t see why Hazelton can’t help
us out.”
Miss Collier’s color deepened a trifle and she made a quick, protesting
gesture with her white-gloved hands. “How absurd, Dad! Mr. Hazelton is
here with friends. I couldn’t think of asking such a thing.”
“Nonsense!” chuckled the older man. “I don’t believe he’ll mind shaking
them for a little while.” He turned to Locke. “I’ve just had a message
from a real-estate man,” he explained, “whom I expected to see in
the morning. He’s got to take the midnight back to Boston, and it’s
essential that I should talk to him before he goes. Virginia can’t very
well stay here alone, but if you would take my place――”
“I should be delighted,” Lefty said swiftly, as the older man paused
questioningly. “The fellows I’m with are just three men from the team.”
In reality he was very far from being overjoyed, but he was much too
courteous and well-bred to allow any sign of this to appear in his face
or manner. Having given up an evening with Janet to keep his previous
engagement, he did not particularly fancy spending it with even so
charming a person as Virginia Collier.
Under the circumstances, however, there was nothing to do but accept
with the best possible grace the situation forced on him; and, though
she was watching him closely, the girl saw nothing in his face but
ready acquiescence and well-simulated pleasure.
Collier breathed a sigh of relief, handed over the seat coupons, and
departed hastily, with the assurance that he would be back before the
performance was ended. Still giving his clever imitation of one in the
throes of unalloyed bliss, Lefty explained to his friends, and then
escorted Miss Collier down the aisle, conscious as he passed the eighth
row of the concentrated stare of three pair of observing eyes. He did
not glance round, however, and he was settled in the third-row aisle
seat when the curtain began to rise.
Few men can resist a thoroughly charming woman when she sets out
deliberately to make herself agreeable. Lefty was not one of the few.
Of course, he did not realize that Miss Collier’s manner with him was a
bit different from what it might have been with any other man.
The girl was much too clever to let him see that. But there are
ways _and_ ways, most of them too subtle for the clumsy masculine
intellect to grasp, which are part of every woman’s mental equipment.
The result of their application in the present instance was the swift
transformation of Lefty’s pose of enjoyment into one of reality.
It must not be supposed for an instant that Virginia Collier’s manner
showed a trace of vulgar coquetry; quite the contrary. Apparently there
was no particle of sentimentality in her make-up. She talked mainly of
baseball, tennis, motoring, and kindred subjects, in a way which showed
that she was more than familiar with her ground; and the contrast
between her daintily feminine appearance and her evident liking for
almost every sort of sport was very taking――as, no doubt, the young
woman fully appreciated.
By the end of the first intermission Lefty felt as if they were old
friends. Before the third act had commenced he found himself discussing
the baseball situation almost as if she had been “one of the fellows.”
One did not have to do much explaining. Her grasp on conditions was
surprising, her judgment almost flawless. Yet, underneath it all, and
ever present as the oft-recurring theme of a symphony, was the lure of
feminine personality, stronger, perhaps, for its very subtlety.
Lefty felt its pull, but did not realize the nature of the attraction.
He told himself that he had never before met anyone quite like Virginia
Collier. She was like a good pal, a chum to whom one could talk almost
as one talked to another man. She was a good sport in the best sense of
the word, and he was vaguely glad that the real-estate man from Boston
had appeared when he did.
Just before the final curtain an usher appeared with a note which Lefty
was able to read by the light from the stage. It was hastily scrawled
from a near-by club, and in it Charles Collier――explaining that he was
still in conference with his business man――requested that Locke escort
his daughter home, and then send the car back for him.
“It really isn’t a bit necessary,” the girl protested, as she glanced
at the paper. “If you’ll find the motor and put me in, I can manage the
rest quite well.”
“Then why didn’t your father ask me to do just that?” Lefty asked.
“Because he’s foolishly silly about my going about at night alone,
even in our own machine.” Miss Collier paused an instant, and then
dimpled charmingly. “You mustn’t judge him by his behavior to-night.
He’s usually annoyingly strict with me. I’m quite sure if you hadn’t
happened to be the son of an old college chum I should have been taken
home without seeing the play.”
The young pitcher laughed. “I’m awfully glad I happened to have the
proper credentials, and I think we’d better follow out Mr. Collier’s
wishes. Besides, if I take you home it will give us a chance to finish
that discussion about Marquard’s work in the box this year.”
“Since you put it that way, I’ll give in,” the girl said, as she arose
to let him place the opera cloak carefully about her shoulders.
Lefty slipped on his coat, secured hat and gloves, and stepped into the
aisle. There was the usual crush of people to block the way, and as
they moved slowly forward he half turned to make a laughing remark to
his companion.
The jesting words were never spoken; the very smile froze on the young
man’s lips as his eyes fell on the face of a girl in the sixth row over
near the boxes.
It was Janet Harting, and there was something about her expression
which held Lefty stupidly silent for a second or two. Then he bowed
eagerly, and smiled. There was absolutely no response.
For an appreciable moment Miss Harting stared at him, her chin
uptilted, her color a little high, perhaps, but her gaze as coldly
impersonal as if he had been an utter stranger. She gazed at him, over
him, _through_ him, without the quiver of an eyelash. Then she rose
leisurely, deliberately turned her back, and began to help her older
companion into a coat.