A MATTER OF VERACITY
Near eleven o’clock that forenoon, Henry Cope saw Benton King passing
his store. Immediately he hurried out, calling to the young man.
“Hey, Bent!” he cried. “Want to see ye a minute. Come back here, will
ye?”
King came back.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Cope? You seem somewhat disturbed.”
“Come inter my office, won’t ye? I want to ask you a few questions.
’Twon’t take long.”
King glanced at his watch. He was wearing a woolen shirt and his
ordinary mill clothes, but even in such common toggery he was a rather
handsome young fellow.
“All right,” he said; “I’ve got ten minutes to spare.”
He was speculating a bit as he followed the storekeeper into the
cramped private office.
“Set down,” invited Cope.
“I prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.”
“All right. I’ll come right to the p’int. I s’posed you was ruther
interested in our baseball team, and I didn’t cal’late you’d do
anything to hurt it.”
“You were quite right,” said Bent.
“Well, if that’s the case, why have you been tellin’ that Tom Locke is
a college pitcher from Princeton? Why did you go and put such a notion
into the noddles of the Bancrofters? What made you give Mike Riley such
an idea?”
The young man frowned.
“Who says anything of the sort? I have never mentioned this fellow
you call Locke to Riley, or any other Bancroft man. I wish you would
explain how you got the impression that I had.”
Cope told of Riley’s visit and his threat, Bent listening with great
interest, which the expression of his face indicated.
“You’re the only person ’round here,” the storekeeper concluded, “who
has said anything about Tom Locke bein’ anybody ’cept what he calls
himself. You come to me and tried to pump me ’bout him. You said you’d
got the notion that Locke was Hazelton, of Princeton. Now, somebody put
Riley onter that, and if it wasn’t you, who was it?”
“I’m unable to answer your question, Cope; but I assure you that it
was not I. But it is quite evident that I was not wrong in believing I
knew Mr. Locke; he _is_ Hazelton, of Princeton――isn’t he?”
“Now, that don’t have nothin’ to do with it. I told ye before when you
asked me that you’d have to go to somebody else to find out.”
“Which was practically a confession that I had scored a bull’s-eye. I
was right.”
Cope puckered his face and rapped impatiently on his desk with his
knuckles.
“Well, now, s’pose you _was_ right, do you want to make a heap of
trouble for the team by publishin’ it and gittin’ us mixed up with
Bancroft in a fuss over him? Was that your objec’? Is that the way you
help your own town team to down them Bullies?”
“Hardly. I had quite a different object, believe me. What it was does
not concern you at all, Cope; it’s my own affair. However, if the
fellow has been using Bancroft as a cat’s-paw to help him squeeze
Kingsbridge for a fancy salary, it will serve him right if he gets it
in the neck, and finds himself barred from both teams. That’s the way I
look at it.”
Cope sprang to his feet excitedly, almost choking in the effort to
utter the words which rushed to his lips. He was mightily disturbed,
and, as usual when overwrought, he perspired freely.
“But he says he never done nothin’ of the sort, and he wouldn’t lie.”
“Wouldn’t he?” said Bent, with a faint sneer. “Why not?”
“Because he’s an honest young feller――honest and square as a brick.”
“How do you know that? Let me tell you, Cope, that a college man who
will play summer ball for money, under a fictitious name, is not
honest; and such a fellow wouldn’t choke a little bit over a lie.”
“Y’u’re wrong ’bout this chap――dead wrong; he’s on the level.”
“He may be,” admitted King, preparing to depart; “but I have my doubts.
I wouldn’t trust him out of sight. Why, such a man might double cross
you any time. He can be bought and sold. It may be a very good thing
for the team to dispense with his services.”
Having said this, he left the office and the store, heedless of some
parting words from Cope, who was far more agitated than he had been
before the interview.
There was triumph in Benton King’s heart, for the last shadow of
uncertainty regarding the identity of Kingsbridge’s star pitcher had
vanished. He had felt before that he was on the right track, but now he
was positive about it; Henry Cope’s refusal to answer his point-blank
question had been admission enough.