METAMORPHOSIS
For a minute or two Savage stood staring across the lobby after Locke
and the manager. Then, as they disappeared into the dining room, he
drew a long breath and raised one hand to his forehead with a puzzled,
undecided gesture.
“_Jekyll and Hyde!_” he muttered in an odd voice as he turned back to
the writing room. Beside the spotted, baize-covered table he paused
again, looking down with thoughtful, unseeing eyes at the unfinished
letter lying there.
“So that’s it,” he murmured under his breath. “I wonder?”
He frowned, and began tapping lightly on the table with one finger. His
lids drooped, and his whole face was eloquent of troubled indecision.
It was several minutes before he roused himself with a determined shake
of the shoulders, and sat down.
“What a splendid friend that chap would make!” he said in a low tone,
his somber face brightening momentarily. “He’d stick to a fellow
through thick and thin, once he believed in him. I wish―― Oh, thunder!
What’s the odds, anyhow!”
He drew the letter to him, and picked up a pen. Five minutes later he
had sealed the envelope and dropped it into a side pocket; and when he
presently entered the dining room no one could have guessed from his
expression that he had so lately been stirred to the very depths of his
being.
As he hesitated just inside the doorway, glancing from right to left,
Locke, who had been watching for his appearance, hailed him from a
near-by table.
“Better sit down here, Savage,” he said pleasantly. “There’s an extra
place or two.”
He had maneuvered so that one of those vacant chairs should be next
his own, for his theories as to the busher’s eccentricities had made
him anxious to see as much as possible of the fellow, and study him
at close range. Several of the other players looked surprised at this
unwonted cordiality toward a man few of them had any use for. Larry
Dalton’s eyebrows went up comically as he glanced inquiringly toward
his friend, but he made no audible comment. He rather suspected some
elaborate joke, but, like the others, was content to wait until he got
his bearings before joining in.
Savage showed neither hesitation nor embarrassment. He took possession
of the chair beside the southpaw as if it were the most natural thing
in the world, gave his order to the waiter, and settled back, his
smiling eyes, so different in expression from the eyes his comrades had
known, ranging composedly from one to another of the surprised faces.
Before the meal was over Lefty had observed enough to strengthen
his belief in the accuracy of that odd supposition concerning dual
personality. The Westerner’s two natures were opposite as the poles.
The snappy, grouchy, quarrelsome Savage who had become so unpopular
with his companions and such a thorn in the manager’s side, had nothing
in common with the pleasant, well-mannered, somewhat retiring chap
sitting at Locke’s right. And Lefty was not the only one to notice the
change. He could read in the faces of the others, and in the way they
cast furtive glances at the busher, that they were equally astonished,
and quite unable to know what to make of it all.
“What’s the game, old man?” Dalton whispered, as they walked out into
the lobby afterward. “What in thunder have you done to him? You must
have done something. The mucker’s almost human!”
Lefty shook his head. “You’ve got me,” he returned briefly. “I haven’t
done a thing. He’s been this way ever since he pulled Al and me out of
the river this morning. Maybe he’s decided to turn over a new leaf.”
“Huh!” grunted the infielder skeptically. “It’s more likely he’s
putting up a game.”
Locke made no comment on the suggestion. His eyes were fixed upon
Savage, who stood a short distance away, talking with two or three
players. His mind was busy with a new detail of the extremely
interesting problem the man presented.
Was the fellow aware in his present state of what had been said and
done by his other self? During dinner he had not talked a great deal,
preferring apparently the rôle of listener. He had answered questions
freely, however, and now and then volunteered a comment. To the
ordinary observer there had been nothing at all out of the way in his
manner, or in those brief remarks, but Lefty recalled now a certain
keen attentiveness to what was being said which reminded him oddly
of a deaf man feeling his way. There had also been one or two little
inconsistencies of speech that seemed significant.
Still watching and thinking, Locke presently saw Pete Zacher stroll up
and join the group. A moment or two later the recruit’s harsh voice was
raised in a note of surprise:
“Say, Nels, what in time have you done with your ring?”
Savage stared at him for a flash, then glanced swiftly down at his left
hand.
“That’s so,” he said. “Much obliged for reminding me. Reckon I must
have left it in my room when I was washing up.”
“In your room?” repeated Zacher. “I thought you said you never took it
off.”
The Westerner hesitated for a second, then shrugged his shoulders
lightly. “Did I say that?” he queried carelessly. “You mustn’t take
everything so literally. Very likely I didn’t want to take it off at
that particular time.”
Zacher’s lips curled. “I don’t know what you meant; I only know what
you said.” He laughed disagreeably. “I s’pose there’s hockshops, even
in this little one-horse burg, eh?”
The recruit’s expression scarcely changed, but to Lefty’s observing
eyes his smile had taken on a chilling quality.
“Very likely,” he retorted quietly, turning on his heel. “You ought to
know, if any one does. Going out to the park, Lefty?”
The southpaw nodded, and together they moved toward the door. In a
breath Savage had committed two palpable inconsistencies. He had flatly
contradicted a former utterance about the ring, while his manner showed
undisguised dislike for a man with whom he had previously been on
better terms than with any one in the squad. It was scarcely possible
that he would have done this with a full consciousness of that other
personality.
Lefty had read of one or two such instances, but to come face
to face with such a condition was vastly different. It seemed
incredible――uncanny. He tried to picture the mental turmoil of a man
awakening suddenly to an existence which had been snipped off as
abruptly, perhaps, months before. The fellow must, by this time, have
some notion of the state of affairs. He must realize that something
almost like another soul inhabited his body at intervals. But to have
absolutely no knowledge of what that other soul had been making his
body do or say would be intolerable.
The busher’s performance on the field that afternoon won a grudging
nod or two of approval from doubting Jack Kennedy. There was nothing
especially brilliant about his form, but Savage unquestionably showed
an anxiety to do his best which had hitherto been conspicuously lacking.
“He might make a pitcher if he kept that up,” admitted the manager to
Lefty. “Of course he won’t, though. About the time I begin thinking I
can use him, he’ll get hitting it up again, or have one o’ them fits
you tell about.”
Though Locke waved away the possibility with some assurance, he was
secretly troubled by that very fear. With no data to guide him, he had
not the least notion of how often these lapses occurred or what brought
them about. The previous period had lasted over two weeks, at least;
but, for all he knew, the present one might terminate at any moment. He
cudgeled his brains to think of anything he could do to ward off such a
catastrophe, but there seemed to be nothing save an effort to keep the
busher’s mind occupied and prevent him from brooding over his condition.
With this idea in mind, Lefty deliberately started in to make things as
agreeable as he could for Savage, and before very long he discovered
the task to be far from irksome. As in that brief railroad trip they
had taken together in the North, he found the Westerner very winning
and likable; and Savage left no doubt of that liking being returned.
The end of the second day found them good friends indeed, and,
curiously enough, none of Lefty’s older cronies――Stillman, Dalton,
Ogan, and the rest――showed any signs of disapproval at the intimacy.
Said Laughing Larry: “When a guy who’s been as rotten as he has can
turn himself into a first-rate, decent chap, it would be a crime not to
encourage him.”
Truly the metamorphosis had been complete. But would it last? That was
the question which troubled the southpaw, and was scarcely ever absent
from his mind. He had a feeling that the hateful transformation might
come at any moment, and without the slightest warning. He could never
be really sure in parting from Savage, even for an hour, that their
next meeting would not find the busher’s evil self again in control.