THE GAGE FLUNG DOWN
Hutchinson laughed in a mirthless manner, no sound escaping his thin
lips. The young man had refused a direct answer, and nimbly made his
escape from the corner in which Hutch had tried to pin him, but it
seemed that he might as well have owned up without squirming.
“It’s a peculiar affair,” said the manager, after a few moments, during
which Lefty sat frowning at the newspaper he still held in his hand.
“Riley proposes to protest against the counting of any games we may win
with you pitching. It seems that old man Cope is getting cold feet, for
he has instructed me to fish up another pitcher or two without delay,
and I’ve got some lines out already.”
The pitcher lifted his eyes and gazed steadily at Hutchinson, as if
looking straight and deep into the hidden chambers of the man’s mind,
there to read his secret thoughts and purposes. In spite of himself,
Hutch felt his icy self-control melting; in spite of himself, he
betrayed resentment; and there was――amazingly――a touch of warmth in the
question he fired at Tom Locke:
“Well, what’s the matter? I don’t suppose you have an idea that we’re
going to drift along and do nothing, in the face of the possibility of
losing you and having the games you’ve pitched thrown out?”
“I was wondering,” said Tom quietly, “just how deeply you were
interested in the baseball welfare of Kingsbridge. Somehow, I can’t
help fancying that it wouldn’t disturb you much if I got it in the
neck, and had to quit or go to Bancroft.”
Hutchinson sneered.
“Haven’t you got a touch of the swelled nut? Do you think you’re the
only pitcher in the business? Winning those two games from Bancroft
must have puffed you up aplenty.”
“I have won games before I ever came here, or I couldn’t have won those
games,” was the retort. “I know you are only a hired manager; but, as
long as you are taking Kingsbridge money for your services, it’s up to
you to give Kingsbridge your very best interest and effort.”
The manager rose, the blaze that had flared strangely a moment before
having sunken to cold ashes of resentment. He had not liked this
young fellow from the first; now that Locke had dared speak out in
such a fearless manner, indicating the ease with which he had plumbed
the shallow depth of Hutchinson’s loyalty, the man’s hatred became
intense. Nevertheless, he sought to resume his habitual mask of cold
indifference.
“I’ve seen plenty of young cubs like you,” he said in his usual level,
colorless voice. “They always have to have it hammered out of them,
and you’ll have to swallow the regular medicine if you play much
professional baseball.”
The gage had been flung down between them; henceforth, although they
might dissemble before others, they would make no effort to deceive
each other regarding their feelings. If Lefty were really ambitious
to get on professionally, it would seem that he had perpetrated a
shortsighted piece of folly in incurring the enmity of his manager.
Nevertheless, rising to his full height to face Hutchinson, he had
something further to say:
“Doubtless, sir, there are other managers like you; but, for the good
of the game, I hope there are not many.”
For something like thirty seconds, Hutch did not stir or move his
eyes from Tom Locke’s face; but he was confronted by a pose equally
statue-like and a gaze even steadier and unflinching, and presently,
struggle against it though he did, his lids drooped.
“You shall regret those words,” he declared, without altering his tone
a particle. “Your baseball career in the Northern League will be short;
at Princeton it is ended.”
He went out, leaving behind him the paper he had brought.
When he was alone, Lefty took a long breath.
“You are right,” he muttered; “at Princeton, it is ended.” And he
laughed queerly.
Hutchinson left the hotel to get the air, which he seemed to need.
A man who had never known what it meant to feel deep and lasting
affection for any human being, he could hate with an intensity as deep
and dark as the Plutonic pit. Seeking a private booth at the central
telephone station, he called up Mike Riley, with whom he made an
appointment to “talk over business,” guarding his words, lest the girl
at the switchboard, listening, should hear something her tongue could
not refrain from tattling. This done, Hutch walked a while, and felt
better.
He was, of course, not the only one who had read the disturbing piece
in the Bancroft _News_; already numerous people in Kingsbridge were
discussing that item, which provoked no small amount of alarm, and
caused Henry Cope to be bombarded all that forenoon with questions he
could not, or would not, answer, putting him before midday into such a
reek of perspiration that he felt as if he had taken a plunge in the
river.
With a copy of the paper in his pocket, Benton King lingered a few
minutes at the post office, and was rewarded by the appearance of
Janet. He showed her the paper, and saw her cheek pale as she read the
brief article.
“That ought to convince you,” he said.
“It does not!” she exclaimed, handing back the paper. “It is a wretched
slur, such as might be expected from Bancroft.”
“Where there’s smoke, you know.”
“I’m truly ashamed of you, Bent. I thought better of you.”
He flushed under the stinging remark, but stood his ground.
“You will be forced to believe, in the end, Janet.”
“As long as Mr. Locke has denied that he is Paul Hazelton, I shall
believe him. He has the eyes of an honest man. He has the face of a man
who cannot lie.”
“I confess that he is an excellent actor, able to assume a most
deceiving air of innocence and veracity.”
“Benton King, I refuse to talk with you about him. Where’s your
proof that he is not what he claims to be? You have only your unjust
suspicions to back you up. I should hate to think you were concerned
in the spreading of this preposterous story printed in the Bancroft
_News_. Why, if I thought that――”
“I am not concerned in it, to my knowledge; I give you my word of honor
on that. When I first suspected that he was Hazelton, of Princeton,
I made some inquiries concerning him; but I have carried nothing to
Riley. Since he denied in your presence that he was Hazelton, I have
not spoken of him to any one save you.”
He was very desirous that, though she knew him to be determined to
expose Locke as an impostor, she should not get the impression that he,
King, would resort to the smallest underhanded device to overthrow a
rival. He had told the man plainly that he had sent for a picture of
Paul Hazelton. It was to be a fair and open fight to the finish.
“Very well,” said Janet, “I believe you. But do not come to me with
any more hearsay gossip about Tom Locke. When you have proof I will
listen.”