THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER
Dyke expressed satisfaction, and the hazelnut sparkler in his blazing
red tie reflected varicolored gleams from its many facets, as his
cupped hands held a burning match to light a fresh cigarette.
As he flung aside the match, and chanced to glance past the far end
of the bleachers, his black eyes glinted on beholding a girl in a
light dress, shading herself with a pale-blue parasol, and seated in a
carriage that had just drawn up in line with others out there. A span
of spirited and extremely restless bays were attached to the carriage.
At the girl’s side, wearing a light suit, straw hat, and tan driving
gloves, sat a square-shouldered young man.
“Hel-lo!” breathed Fancy. “There’s old man King’s cub, with the
parson’s daughter. I don’t blame him, for she certainly is some peach.
She must be getting independent; last year I offered to get her a
season ticket, but she said her hidebound old man wouldn’t let her come
to the games, which he considered sinful and poisonous to the morals
of the community.”
“Huh!” grunted Riley, eyeing the girl in the carriage. “She’s a year
older now, and mebbe she’s given the old pulpit pounder notice that she
proposes henceforth to do about as she pleases. I’ve heard she’s ruther
high-strung and lively.”
“Well, she’s taking a chance with Bent King, ’cording to his college
record. He cut it out so hot that he was fired the second year, and
then his old man, feeling somewhat peeved, set him to work in the big
mill here. Now the brat’s foreman of the mill, though I reckon it was
his father that put him there over better men, and not his ability.”
“Oh, you’re jealous,” chuckled the manager. “She turned you down when
you tried to git gay, that’s what’s the matter. You oughter considered,
Fancy, that your record was agin’ ye, and that you was known by
reputation in Kingsbridge, just as well as in Bancroft. I’ve noticed
the right sorter gals don’t travel in your society extensively.”
Dyke’s thin cheek took on a faint flush, and he gnawed with his sharp
white teeth one corner of his close-cropped, small black mustache.
“I reckon she’d be as safe with me as with Bent King,” he retorted.
“Of course, I know what her old man would think of me; but in these
days girls don’t tell their folks about every man they’re friendly
with.”
“There’s old Cope speakin’ to her now,” said Riley. “Looket him take
the cover off that skatin’ rink of his. There’s real swagger gallantry
for ye, Flash.”
A stout, red-faced, jolly-looking man in a somewhat soiled snuff-colored
suit had paused beside the carriage to lift his hat and speak to the
girl, who greeted him with a charming smile and a show of fetching
dimples.
“Howdy-do, Janet,” said the man on the ground. “I’m s’prised to see you
here, though I b’lieve you did tell me you was crazy over baseball.
Your father’s so set agin’ it that I didn’t s’pose he’d let you come.
Howdy-do, Benton. Fine day for the opening.”
“Oh, father is as bad as ever,” laughed the girl; “but I told Bent how
much I wanted to come, and he drove round and used his persuasion with
daddy, who finally consented, after getting a promise that I would sit
in the carriage and not step out of it. It was jolly nice of Benton,
for I am crazy over the game, and I’d go to see one every day if I
could.”
She was fresh and girlish and unaffected, yet, somehow, she did not
give one the impression of crudity and silliness so often shown by
a vivacious, blue-eyed blonde. Although very pretty, she was not
doll-like, and one who studied her mobile, changeful face would soon
discover there, as well as in her voice and manner, unmistakable signs
of good breeding and character. Her eyes were unusual; one could not
look into their depths without feeling irresistibly attracted toward
her.
The young man at her side, a well-set-up chap a trifle above medium
height, was the only son of Cyrus King. He was not more than
twenty-four, and had a somewhat cynical, haughty face, with a pair of
flashing dark eyes and petulant mouth. Nevertheless, when he laughed,
which he did quite frequently, he was attractive, almost handsome.
“Yes, Cope,” he nodded, as the older man brought forth a handkerchief
and mopped his perspiring bald head; “it certainly is a good day for
the opening, and there’s a cracking crowd out to see it. They’re
beginning to overflow the seats. Suppose we have any show at all to
win?”
“Hey?” cried the chairman of the baseball association. “Any show to
win? You bet we have! We’re _goin’_ to win. We’ve got to have this
first game at home.”
“But we’re up against Bancroft, and I see Jock Hoover has just finished
warming up to pitch for them.”
“That’ll jest make it all the more interestin’. We’ve got a pitcher,
too, I want you to know. I signed him myself, and he’ll make ’em set up
and take notice. You jest watch Tom Locke when he goes inter the box.”
“I’ve heard something about him. Who is he? And where did you get him?”
Running the handkerchief round the sweatband inside his soiled straw
hat, Henry Cope winked shrewdly, and covered his shining dome.
“Why, didn’t I tell ye his name is Tom Locke? Never mind where I
picked him up. He’s got the goods, and he’ll deliver ’em. If he don’t
jest naturally make them Bullies break their backs poundin’ empty air
to-day, I’ll be the most s’prised man in the county.”
“Oh, I hope he _is_ good!” exclaimed the girl. “Everybody in town was
disappointed over the way Bancroft beat us last year. They all said we
needed one corking good pitcher to put up against Bancroft’s best man.”
“We’ve got him,” assured Henry Cope. “We’ve got the very feller in this
here Locke. You watch and see.”
“There goes the umpire,” said King. “They are going to start the game.”
“Excuse me,” said Cope hastily. “I think I’ll git over by our bench,
where I can watch Locke work. That’s him――that tall, slim chap goin’
inter the box now. Jest keep your eye on him. So long.”
He hurried away as the umpire called “play” and Bancroft’s first batter
rose and trotted out from the bench.