MIGHTY QUEER
Kennedy wanted an opportunity to meditate quietly upon the peculiar
behavior of Lefty Locke, with the hope of hitting on a reasonable
solution of the problem. For a problem it now appeared to the old
manager.
“There’s just one thing I’m afraid of,” he said to McLaughlin after
Lefty had bidden them good night and ascended to his room. “He didn’t
expect to run across me here in Deering. It must have been a jolt to
him, though he managed to hide it mighty clever. Now, he may take a
notion to sneak sudden and give us the shake. ’Twouldn’t surprise me if
you woke up to-morrer to find your late guest missing.”
“He’ll have some trouble gittin’ out of town before the first train in
the morning,” declared Peter. “If you think it’s worth while, Jack,
I’ll have Skedge, the boy, set up all night right here to see that he
don’t sneak out.”
“Anything would be worth while if we could only get him to pitch a few
games for us.”
But if Skedge remained awake and on guard all night in the office of
the Central House, he wasted his time. Apparently the new guest had
no idea of slipping away, and when he appeared at breakfast the next
morning everything seemed to indicate that he had passed a restful
night.
Kennedy came in early for forenoon practice at the ball park, but his
suggestion that the new farm hand should go out to the grounds with him
was not received favorably.
“If you don’t mind, pal,” said Lefty, “I’ll wait for you right here
at the hotel till you get ready to take me out to your farm. Baseball
doesn’t interest me at all.”
Jack frowned a bit over that word “pal.” It was not like Lefty Locke,
and he had noticed that at times since his appearance in Deering the
fellow spoke with a touch of slang that seemed quite unnatural and
different from his usual manner of speech. There was in it, however, no
trace of the slang of the baseball field.
At noon Kennedy, coming back from the park, decided to lunch with
Locke at the hotel. During the meal, however, he had little success in
drawing the man into conversation.
“Keep bottled up if you can,” thought old Jack resentfully; “I’ll trip
you yet.”
The Boobs came in on the two o’clock train, and made straight for the
field. Kennedy lingered at the post office to get his daily paper, and
stopped at the hotel on his way out to the park. McLaughlin was waiting
for him.
“Tell you what,” said the landlord, “this southpaw o’ yourn don’t
propose to earn his twenty-five a month playin’ baseball. I’ve been
tryin’ to get him out to the game, but he won’t budge.”
“Let me handle this case, Peter,” urged Kennedy, spreading out his
newspaper. “I don’t quite get his drift yet, but I will. Take a look
at this! Here’s something more about the unexplained disappearance of
Lefty Locke. They can’t seem to trace him. Some think he was killed
in the smash, but all save one of the dead were identified, and the
description of that one don’t agree at all with the description of
Locke. He was a slim, slender, blue-eyed chap who looked like he was
in bad health. That accident, together with the loss of Locke, seems
to have knocked the starch out of the Blue Stockings, for the Terriers
are eating ’em up in the series. The wise guys think it’s going to be a
cinch from now on for the Specters to get away with the championship.”
“Mebbe that’ll interest our friend here,” suggested McLaughlin. “He’s
in the writin’ room, watchin’ people on the street through the window.
That’s all he seems to do――jest set around and watch folks.”
Kennedy found Locke in the writing room. “I say, Stranger,” he said,
“here’s a daily paper that may help you to pass away the time till I
get back after the game. Just look it over.”
He put the paper in the man’s hand with the item regarding Locke and
the Blue Stockings folded out; but, after a nod and a casual glance at
that page, Lefty turned to another part of it.
Old Jack rejoined McLaughlin, growling, and together they hastened to
the field.
About two hours later Kennedy drove up in front of the hotel with his
rig, and asked for Mr. Stranger. The latter seemed to be waiting, for
he came forth at once, the landlord following closely.
“Well, Stranger,” said McLaughlin, as the man got into the carriage, “I
hope you take to your job out on Kennedy’s farm.”
“Thanks, bo,” was the reply, as old Jack drove away.
Kennedy had an excellent farm under a fine state of cultivation.
Besides the overseer, he kept a stout, hulking boy, and at times, when
needed, extra hands were hired. All the buildings were in perfect
repair, and painted a clean white. The house was a big, square,
old-fashioned affair, with fireplaces and a wide veranda. Kennedy’s
sister, a widow by the name of Malone, was the housekeeper.
“I’m going to let you take a day or two to get the hang of things
around the place,” said Kennedy, as he showed Locke into a big, square
corner chamber with four windows, two of which opened toward the east.
“There’s no hurry about your striking in to work, as it’s a bit slack
just now.”
The new man muttered his thanks, standing in the middle of the room and
looking around in a manner which seemed to indicate slight surprise
over this sort of treatment, which, perhaps, was scarcely what he had
expected. Through the open door, as he departed, Jack saw him seat
himself by one of the windows, and, with his head resting on his hand,
look out at the softly rustling trees, the broad fields beyond, and the
little lake on which the afternoon sunshine was shimmering. There was
something pathetic and lonely in his pose and manner, and to himself,
as he descended the stairs, Jack muttered:
“Queer――mighty queer!”