A VOICE OUT OF DARKNESS
Thanks to the irritating nature of the encounter on the field, and the
swarm of unanswerable questions it had aroused, Lefty entered the hotel
in a decidedly ill humor. The delight and keen enthusiasm he had felt
that morning were quite gone; in their place had come a sense of ill
treatment.
After the sacrifice he had made in coming down ahead of the other
regulars, and practically giving a week of his time to coaching these
raw recruits from all over the country, it seemed as if fortune had
played him a scurvy trick by bringing into his sphere such an irritant
as Nelson Savage was likely to become.
“Wonder if I didn’t make a mistake, after all, in keeping my hands off
him?” muttered Lefty, glancing around the lobby. “There won’t be any
living with the dog until he’s been taken down by a thorough thrashing,
and―― Well, for Pete’s sake, look who’s here!”
In a flash the frown was swept from his face by a grin of surprised
delight as he leaped toward the tall, wiry young man who stood at one
end of the desk, talking and laughing with Jack Kennedy.
“Al, you old villain,” he cried, gripping the newcomer’s hands in both
of his, “where the deuce do you hail from? I’m certainly glad to see
that homely mug of yours again.”
Al Ogan’s response to the greeting was equally hearty. The two had
been fellow-cubs a year before in peppery Jim Brennan’s famous Hornet
organization, and Lefty had got along better with the clever young
infielder than with any other member of the team except his particular
chum, Buck Fargo.
“Haven’t been doing a thing in the twirling line since I saw you last,
have you?” Ogan inquired, one arm resting on Locke’s shoulder. “It’s a
wonder you wouldn’t get a wiggle on and make some kind of a reputation
for yourself.”
The southpaw laughed. “Time enough for that, old scout. We’re likely
to show you a trick or two this season. But, say, what in the name of
sense brought you down here? What license have you got to come snooping
around our promising growth from the timber regions?”
Ogan showed a fine set of teeth in a wide grin. “Doesn’t seem to occur
to you that I might be here for the purpose of giving you rubes a few
lessons in the art of playing the national game,” he remarked, with
twinkling eyes.
Lefty stared. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” he asked, darting a swift,
inquiring glance at Kennedy.
Evidently there was something in the latter’s face which gave away the
situation, for Locke suddenly brought his open palm down across the
manager’s shoulders with a force which shook old Jack.
“Why, you deceiving old reprobate!” exclaimed the pitcher. “So this
is how you filled Spider’s place? I’ll be hanged! Never even gave me
a chance to ask what luck you had with first. It was on the tip of my
tongue three or four times this morning, but you always choked me off.”
“Thought I’d give you a surprise,” chuckled Kennedy. “From the way you
looked a while back, I should say you needed one. What’s eating you,
anyhow?”
Lefty had not the slightest intention of letting either man know of his
clash with Savage; it would savor entirely too much of talebearing to
suit him. He smiled blandly, convincingly, and shrugged his shoulders.
“Nothing,” he drawled. “No, Jack, if I seemed at all serious, it must
have been caused by the thought of wasting a perfectly good week of
freedom watching you do the Solomon act with this crowd from the
sagebrush. Now that Al’s here, life will be more bearable.”
Kennedy laughed and moved away toward the proprietor’s office, leaving
Locke and Ogan to talk things over.
Lefty was more than pleased at the encounter. The young Ohioan was
a college graduate and a good fellow in every sense of the word.
Personally Locke had always liked him, and just at present he would
have welcomed a much less agreeable member of the old squad. It gave
him some one of his own status to talk to; some one who knew men and
conditions of the baseball world, and who did not spend any time either
eying the famous southpaw with surreptitious awe, or jealously tearing
to pieces his hard-earned reputation.
Within ten minutes the two had decided to room together. They sat side
by side in the dining-room, and when the hour for afternoon practice
approached went out to the field together.
Without appearing to do so, Lefty kept an observant eye that afternoon
on Nelson Savage, and discovered, as he rather expected to, that the
fellow was not a general favorite. So far as could be seen, he was on
speaking terms with just two members of the squad. The remainder of the
recruits he treated with contemptuous disdain; if one could judge by
the biting comments cast in his direction, the dislike was mutual.
Of course it was impossible at this early day to obtain any idea of his
professional skill. Beyond handling a baseball with a certain amount
of deftness, he showed no particular ability; nor was he likely to for
some time to come. As for his physical condition, Lefty was surprised
at the discovery that the fellow was much too heavy, and extremely
short-winded. He puffed and panted when he joined the file that Kennedy
led at a trot around the inside of the fence; and he didn’t last five
minutes when lured into the diabolical “high-low” game.
Many of the other recruits were out of condition, but none of them
quite as badly as this, and Locke naturally laid it to the busher’s
intemperate habits. That evening after dinner, sitting in the lobby
with Kennedy and Ogan, a quick suspicion came to him at the sight of
Savage slipping out of the hotel alone.
“I thought you were keeping an eye on that fellow, Jack?” he remarked,
in a low tone. “What’s to prevent him digging up some redeye in the
village?”
Kennedy laughed, leaning back comfortably. “Evidently you don’t know
Tulane, son. The place is so dry that a quart of bourbon would look
like the flood. Only way he could smuggle it in is on the railroad,
and the boys are all good friends of mine that I’ve tipped off to look
out for that sort of thing. Unsociable grouch, ain’t he? Goes off
alone ’most every night just like that. You’d think he’d get tired of
himself, wouldn’t you?”
“Where does he go?” Lefty asked.
“Oh, moving pictures, I reckon. I followed him the first couple of
times, and found him down there.” He yawned. “There ain’t no danger of
his getting firewater now. The trouble’ll come when the push lands on
us. They’re supposed to be on the water wagon, an’ most of ’em are; but
you know how some of ’em carry flasks for colds, which they’re likely
to leave around permiscuous-like.”
Lefty could not take the manager’s easy-going point of view. He knew
that in country towns like Tulane the films are sometimes changed only
once a week――never oftener than twice weekly. Unless a man was an
absolute crank on the subject, he could scarcely care to see the same
series of pictures three or four times in succession. It looked rather
as if the busher had been clever enough to prepare a sort of alibi
for himself which made it possible for him to slip away every evening
without arousing the manager’s suspicions.
Presently Kennedy went off to write letters. A few moments later Locke
and Ogan strolled into the billiard room to see if there was anything
doing. They found a flourishing game of draw in progress, and, being
urged to “sit in,” Ogan succumbed without a struggle. Lefty shook his
head, however, watched the play absently for a few minutes, and finally
walked out through the lobby into the street. He had given in to the
pull of mingled curiosity and conscience, and found not a particle of
pleasure in doing so.
Tulane was certainly small, and, at night, at least, most undoubtedly
“dead.” It supported two moving-picture establishments, nevertheless,
which rather weakened the southpaw’s theory regarding Savage’s
inability to find continued amusement at picture-plays, but did not
make him abandon his determination to learn if such was the man’s
practice.
Entering the Palace Theater, he was fortunate in finding the lights
up for the accommodation of a vaudeville turn. The seating capacity
was not large, and in five minutes he was certain that Savage was not
in the place. At the Tulane Opera House the wait was longer, but the
result the same. By the time he had reached the street again Lefty’s
interest in the search had quite swallowed up the reluctance with which
he had started it.
The question now was, not to pick and choose from a multitude of places
where Savage might have gone, but to hunt out one solitary spot or
building which would attract the fellow or serve the purpose which
Lefty felt sure was moving him.
A baker’s shop was open, Locke discovered as he moved slowly down the
street; but its feeble light was the only one flickering amid the rows
of low-fronted, quaint old shops. It was like hunting a needle in a
haystack.
Presently, without any hope of success, the pitcher wandered through
some of the rambling, curving residence streets near the river. Here
the lights, save those from the houses themselves, were few and far
between, and there seemed so little chance of anything doing that he
was about to turn back when he became suddenly aware that two people
were approaching from the direction of the river road.
Stopping abruptly, he heard the murmur of men’s voices; but the
darkness was so intense that it was impossible to see more than
the shadowy outlines of objects a dozen feet away. For a moment he
hesitated; then, stepping back against the hedge which bordered the
place on his right, he found he could easily push through. A second
later he was standing on the other side of the flowering magnolia
shrubs.
The action had been governed by impulse――and just the faintest
suggestion of familiarity in one of the unknown voices. Almost
immediately the raucous, angry accents of Nelson Savage reached Lefty’s
ears.
“Why, you fresh young squirt!” said the pitcher to his companion. “I’ve
got a good mind to put old Kennedy wise to what I know.”
There was a momentary pause, during which the steps sounded loud and
clear, as if the men were passing on the other side of the hedge. In
his desire to find out who the other person was, Locke bent eagerly
forward, his ears strained.
“I hardly think you’ll do that,” came at length in a low, composed
voice. “You see, I happen to know a thing or two myself, and I might be
forced in self-defense――”
That was all. The man did not cease speaking, but a movement of his
head, or a little eddy of wind, perhaps, turned the words into an
unrecognizable murmur.
Lefty did not need anything further. Already he had heard enough to
amaze him. The voice of the second man was that of Gene Temple.