A PERPLEXING QUESTION
Savage made no effort to accept Lefty’s militant invitation. He
did not stir or utter a word, but remained glaring at Locke with a
concentration which gave the southpaw a queer and decidedly unpleasant
sensation. He was vividly reminded of an occasion when he had stood
before one of the glass dens in the Bronx Park reptile house, staring
into the bright, evil eyes of a very active cobra which had reared
itself belligerently.
The stillness became oddly prolonged. The busher’s eyes seemed to widen
and grow larger. Locke was conscious of a peculiar sense of lethargy
which changed swiftly to irritation at the fellow who seemed to be
trying to stare him down. Suddenly he gave a determined shake of his
head.
“Well,” he demanded curtly, “aren’t you going to start something?”
Savage drew back abruptly, an expression akin to disappointment
flickering across his face.
“Say,” he rasped harshly, “what kind of a sucker do you think I am? I’d
start to beat you up in this ball park, and how soon do you s’pose it
would be before Kennedy landed on my neck?”
“Who’s going to put him wise?”
“If I once got going right you’d sure be a walking advertisement of
what had happened. The whole crowd would be wise soon as they lamped
you. Nix! You don’t get me in bad with the old man that way!”
Lefty’s lips curled. “Sure that’s the real reason?” he inquired
sarcastically. “Looks to me as if you were crawling.”
The busher’s fists clenched and his face flushed darkly. For a second
it seemed that he meant to fly at the throat of the man who had taunted
him. Locke’s muscles stiffened; he braced himself instinctively to
withstand the shock. But it never came.
“It won’t work,” growled Savage through his clenched teeth. “I’ll get
you before I’m through, but not until I have a place with this crowd
cinched. Another thing――there ain’t a bit of use in your coming around
with that soft stuff, ’cause it don’t go. I don’t like a hair of your
head, and trying that brand o’ bunk will only start ructions――see?”
The last word had scarcely left his lips when he turned and strode
rapidly across the field toward the gate. Lefty, scarlet with rage
at the insulting tone, took half a dozen swift steps after him
before cooling second thought put on the brake. It was one thing to
defend himself against assault, quite another deliberately to start
a rough-house, in spite of even as great a provocation as this. It
would be a poor way in which to repay Kennedy’s exceptional faith
in him by fostering what the manager feared above almost any other
calamity――dissension and hard feeling among members of his team.
“Just about one more crack like that, though, and you’ll get yours,”
muttered the southpaw angrily, coming to a halt. “Jove, what a mucker!
He ought to have the rudiments of decency beaten into his thick skull
with a club. Soft stuff――bah!”
To a man whose friendship and acquaintance was sought with a frequency
which is almost tiresome, the insinuation that he would deliberately
try to win over such a creature as this by flattery was irritating
to the limit. Nor was Lefty’s irritation at all assuaged by the
realization that in a far-fetched sort of way he had placed himself
open to the annoyance.
“But how could I know he’d be like this?” he growled as he moved slowly
toward the gate, his face still crimson with indignation. “Jack said he
was sober――and so he was. How could a fellow guess that any human being
would change like that? Why, on the train he was as decent a sort――”
He broke off abruptly, with a start of surprise, the anger in his face
giving place swiftly to puzzled thoughtfulness. How did he know that
the fellow had ever really changed? Might not that pose of friendliness
have been altogether a pretense?
Such a supposition would indicate amazing ability at acting on the part
of this crude individual from the Western bushes, but it was far from
impossible. Even more difficult to understand was the man’s motive in
perpetuating such a deception. Why should his manner toward Lefty be
so different in Belle View from that shown at Deering, or later here
in Georgia? What had he gained, or hoped to gain, by a pose which must
have been not only difficult but extremely onerous?
The question puzzled Locke all the way back to the hotel. He could
think of no plausible answer save that Savage had desired to divert
attention from some one or something in the quiet Jersey suburb. It was
a bit far-fetched, perhaps, yet by assuming that guise of friendliness
he had certainly so surprised and engrossed Lefty as to make him
totally forgetful of the odd circumstance of the busher’s presence in
the little country town.
If this supposition were correct, a lot of puzzling queries leaped into
life like Hydra heads. None was more difficult that the last of all
which popped suddenly into the southpaw’s mind, just as he came within
sight of the hotel: Why had Savage refused to fight?
The obvious explanation would have been: Because he was afraid――because,
like most loud-mouthed, blustering braggarts, he was a coward at heart.
But Lefty had a strong impression that this was not the case. Much as he
disliked the man, he had never had the least doubt of his courage. The
ruffian had been ready enough twice before to resort to violence. What
motive held him back now?