A BIT OF A STAGGERER
Locke could scarcely believe his senses. Temple with Nels Savage, and
showing by his words every evidence of a previous acquaintance! It
seemed almost impossible. During the past week the southpaw had seen a
good deal of the latest recruit to the Blue Stockings’ pitching staff,
and the close proximity of a three days’ railroad journey, instead
of opening Lefty’s eyes to unexpected defects in his companion’s
character, had served, rather, to make him like the blond youngster
even more than he had at first. Temple could not be said to possess any
extraordinary mental strength or depth, but he was certainly likable,
and it was difficult to believe that he had deliberately lied.
Yet how else was the affair to be explained? The voice of that second
passer-by was Temple’s, Lefty was certain. Back in Belle View the
fellow had denied any previous acquaintance with the Western twirler.
There was only one inference to draw, much as Locke might dislike the
idea or consider it incredible.
All this passed through the latter’s mind in the few seconds while he
stood crouching behind the magnolia hedge, waiting for the men to get
far enough away for him to emerge without fear of detection.
Determined to prove his suspicions and become absolutely certain,
Lefty’s first impulse was to follow the two until a street light
enabled him to see with his own eyes. But as he pushed through the
hedge and paused for an instant on the sidewalk, a better way occurred
to him. Knowing little about the streets and byways of Tulane, he had,
nevertheless, a shrewd notion that the way he had come was shorter by
far than the route the others seemed to be following back to the hotel.
By swiftly retracing his steps, he could reach the lobby ahead of them.
Silently he slipped back to the entrance of the narrow lane through
which he had reached the river road, and darted into it. Five minutes
later he emerged on a wider street and made all speed toward the
lighted corner beyond, which he remembered turning not a great while
after leaving Main Street.
As he made this hurried, silent progress through the fragrant darkness
and quiet of the village streets, his mind was keenly active. With this
latest discovery several suspicious happenings in Belle View, unnoticed
at the time, came back with swift, vivid significance. Temple’s manner
when he had first heard of Savage’s presence in the town had been just
a little odd. Considering the circumstances, it was hardly natural
for a chap of his sort to be so greatly upset by the incident of a
strange person seen in his house; his intense relief at the discovery
of the truth had been proportionately queer. At the station, too, that
sudden recollection of a forgotten engagement had been oddly timed with
Savage’s appearance.
“Might easily have caught a glimpse of Savage through the window, and
used that excuse to beat it before the man came out and saw him,”
reflected Lefty as he turned into Main Street and hastily approached
the hotel. “I’d certainly never have thought he was that sort, hanged
if I would!” His face clouded disappointedly, and he frowned slightly.
“Even now it doesn’t seem like him. Well, I’ll know in a jiffy just
what’s what.”
A swift glance down the street showed nothing of the ill-assorted pair,
and Locke wasted no time entering the hotel. The lobby was deserted
save for the desk clerk, invisible behind an open newspaper; from
the billiard room came sounds of talk and laughter which brought the
southpaw over to the doorway.
The poker game was still in progress, and gathered about the table
was a ring of spectators which accounted easily for the empty lobby.
Neither Temple nor Savage was there; this Locke assured himself with a
slight nod of satisfaction. He was about to turn back to the lobby when
he discovered that Al Ogan was likewise missing.
For a second he paused, brows arching in surprise. The first baseman
was a poker fiend, if ever one lived; to imagine him voluntarily
dropping out of a game was difficult.
“What happened to Al, Mac?” the pitcher asked abruptly. “Thought he’d
stay with you all the evening.”
“Huh?” absently grunted Jack Mackentire, raising his eyes from the
cards. “Oh! Why, a kid came in with a note for him, and he beat it
without saying where he was going. Didn’t seem keen about leaving,
either. Want him special?”
“Oh, no,” said Lefty. “He’ll be back soon, I guess.”
It seemed a rather curious performance, for Ogan had only just arrived,
and could scarcely have any friends in the place outside the squad.
Still, it was none of Lefty’s business, and the southpaw turned back
toward the lobby.
As he passed through the doorway he stopped short with a gasp
of amazement. Just emerging from the little cubby-hole of a
writing-room――a spot patronized mainly by drummers and their ilk――was
Gene Temple. He was in the act of stretching luxuriously, head thrown
back, mouth gaping, arms extended. Clasped in one hand were three
sealed letters, written on the hotel stationery.
“Why, I thought――” began Locke. His teeth came together with a click as
he realized that he had been speaking aloud.
Temple came forward, smiling. “Nothing gives a fellow a more virtuous
feeling than answering a bunch of letters,” he drawled. “Look at those.”
Lefty had already observed them. “Must have taken you most of the time
since dinner,” he said, with swiftly returning composure.
“Not quite; but I’ve been at it――”
Whether the sentence was ever finished or not the southpaw was quite
unaware. He was standing where, by shifting his glance a trifle to
the left, he commanded an uninterrupted view of the main entrance.
The sound of voices made him glance thither now. The sight of Al
Ogan entering with Nelson Savage, and talking to the fellow with all
the seeming good humor in the world, was enough to drive every other
thought from the pitcher’s bewildered brain.