THE INITIALS
He thanked her for the words, and secured his hat and book as they
walked slowly toward the log. Tommy was again blowing away at his
harmonica, Jimmy was sulking, and the others fell to amusing themselves
with a game of hide and seek. Janet sat on the log, and Locke seated
himself near her.
“What were you reading?” she asked curiously.
He gave her the book, and she glanced at it. It was a well-thumbed
volume of “The Merchant of Venice.”
“My favorite when I read Shakespeare,” he said. “I don’t know why, but
I have read it over and over. At the moment when I heard you calling,
I was reading Bassanio’s raptures on finding Portia’s portrait in the
leaden casket.”
Leaning forward a bit and looking steadily at her, he quoted:
“‘Here are sever’d lips,
Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs
The painter plays the spider and hath woven
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men.’”
His voice was low and soft, yet full and deep. Again her eyes drooped
before his. One shapely white hand toyed with a loose bit of bark.
“You quote well,” she said, compelling herself to speak calmly, almost
carelessly. “You should be a teacher of elocution.”
“The task would be agreeable indeed,” he returned, “if I could choose
my pupil.”
“You speak in the singular.”
“Which,” he declared instantly, “is not at all singular, the situation
considered. Had I my choice, I’d not seek a pupil beyond this little
glade.”
“Oh, if you were to pick one of my Sunday-school class, I’m afraid you
would not find the task particularly agreeable. Teaching elocution to
Tommy or Jimmy or any of the others would be thankless work.”
He smiled. “I’d not care to seek so far, yet I know it is presumptuous
for me to fancy that I could teach _you_.”
She flashed him a smile that went to his head like wine and made him
long to imprison the dainty hand that was still toying with the bit
of loose bark. There was a brief silence, broken only by the echoing
cries of the romping children.
“Tommy, Tommy!” she cried suddenly, “play ‘Marching Through Georgia.’
Just listen, Mr. Locke; Tommy plays very well for a little fellow.
Don’t you think so?”
“To tell the truth, I don’t, but, if you say so, I’ll swear he plays
divinely.”
“You have a habit of speaking the truth always?”
“It is my intention to follow the practice when possible.”
“Do you think a lie is ever excusable?”
“One of the leading divines in the country has said that a harmless
white lie is permissible when it shields a friend from truth that would
cause pain.”
“Do you know there are those who think you were not truthful when you
denied that you are Paul Hazelton, of Princeton?”
“I believe that there is one, at least, who thinks so. The doubt in
Benton King’s eyes was too plain to escape me.”
“But you are _not_ Paul Hazelton?”
“I am not. I hope you believe me, Miss Harting.”
“I do,” she answered. “But I can’t understand why they persist in
trying to make out that you are he. The Bancroft _News_ printed a
piece that would lead people to believe it.”
“Which is evidence that there are those besides Benton King who wish to
believe it, and, of them all, doubtless Manager Riley, of Bancroft, is
the most eager; for he pretends to have some sort of a claim, according
to the rules of the Northern League, upon the services of Paul
Hazelton. If I am the Hazelton in question, he means to take me away
from Kingsbridge, even though he may fail in compelling me to pitch
for the Bullies. That’s his game, Miss Harting. When he has pushed it
to the limit, he’ll find that he’s barking up the wrong tree, and the
laugh will be on him and the others who have fooled themselves in the
same way.”
Although he smiled a little, his words were spoken with such sincere
frankness and honesty that she was shamed by the thought that even the
slightest shadow of doubt had clouded her confidence in him. A man with
such steady eyes, set well apart; such a mouth, unmarred by the soiling
touch of guile; such a voice, deep, strong, yet suppressed, like the
softened notes of an organ――that man could not lie.
“I am beginning to understand,” she said hastily. “It is just like
those Bancrofters; they are determined that Kingsbridge shall not get
ahead of them at anything. They are terribly wrought up because we have
beaten them at baseball, and they’ll do anything to weaken our team.
I――I’m glad they can’t get you away from us. Do you think we have a
good chance to win the pennant this year?”
“If the games are played on their merits, with no underhanded work, I
see no reason why Kingsbridge should not stand as much chance to win as
Bancroft. You did not come out to the Lakeport game.”
“How do you know?”
“I looked for you.”
“But――in all that crowd――”
“I am sure you were not there; if you had been, I should have seen you.”
“No,” she answered, glowing at the knowledge that he had taken so much
trouble to seek for her in the crowd. “I have not seen a game since
the first one you pitched. Father raises such objections that I have
thought best to stay away, even though he has not positively forbidden
me to attend. If I can get an escort, I shall do my best to persuade
him to let me see the next game when Bancroft plays here. Every one in
Kingsbridge seems to think it will be a great battle.”
“Bancroft comes Wednesday, this week.”
“And you will pitch?”
“I don’t know; I presume so.”
“Oh, I’ll see it unless father positively refuses to let me go. I
_must_ see that game! I hope you pitch as well as you did before.”
“I hope so myself,” he laughed, “although for a time in the first
inning I was almost led to believe I couldn’t pitch at all.”
“I’ll never forget it,” she breathed. “It was dreadful. The crowd was
howling at you so, and you seemed utterly unable to get the ball over.
I confess that I, too, thought you were useless as a pitcher. But when
you redeemed yourself, and the crowd became satisfied that you could
hold Bancroft, how quickly the howling turned to cheers! I can hear
them now, crying: ‘Oh, you Lefty!’ It was splendid!”
Janet’s cheeks were bright, and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm
reawakened by those exciting moments. Watching the movements of her
lips, revealing flitting glimpses of perfect teeth; listening to her
voice, as sweet as that of Bassanio’s beloved maid; entranced by the
violet light of her eyes, all aglow with earnestness; he was stirred as
never before in all his life.
Then and there came the knowledge that she was the one girl for him.
He longed to tell her, but words fit to do him such service seemed
impossible to find; he doubted if they were contained in any language.
The first words were trembling on his lips when suddenly one of the
romping children uttered a cry of pain, followed immediately by other
cries, bringing Janet to her feet in alarm.
“What is it?” she called.
“It’s Jimmy,” answered Tommy Murphy, appearing from behind some bushes.
“He’s cut his foot on somep’n. It’s bleedin’ fierce.”
Locke was at Janet’s side when she reached Jimmy, who was sitting on
the ground, surrounded by the other little boys, and holding one of
his bare feet. It had been gashed by a broken bottle hidden by fallen
leaves and vines.
Without hesitation Janet dropped to her knees to do what she could,
but Tom was equally swift and unfaltering in action. Whipping forth a
spotless handkerchief, he knelt to bind up the injury.
“It will be best to take him to a doctor right away,” he said, “for
there may be pieces of glass in the cut. Let me attend to this, Miss
Harting. I can do it alone; I won’t need any help,” he declared, as he
observed that all the color had departed from her cheeks, leaving them
very pale.
“Let me help,” she urged steadily.
“Yuh――yuh don’t think I――I’ll bl-e-bleed ter death, do ye?” sobbed
Jimmy.
“Hardly as bad as that, old chap,” smiled Locke, as he wound the
handkerchief round the foot and drew it tight. “There’s no danger at
all. We’ll have you fixed up all right. It doesn’t hurt much, does it?”
“Aw, I don’t care a rap fer ther hurtin’, but it bled so like thunder
that it got my goat,” was the reply.
Janet, watching, saw Tom bring two corners of the folded handkerchief
together to tie them. On one of those corners her eyes beheld some
initials, plainly and distinctly worked; so plain and distinct were
they that there could be no possible mistake as to what they were. She
stared at them, wondering, for the letters were “P. H.”
“There you are, old man,” said Locke cheerfully, when he had knotted
the ends of the handkerchief securely. “Never mind if the blood does
come through; the doctor will stop that pretty quick. Now, come on, and
I’ll take you to him pickapack.”
He lifted the little fellow lightly, and swung him to his back. Janet
rose, and followed, the children, chattering, trailing after.
“P. H.,” she whispered to herself. “Those letters surely do not stand
for Tom Locke.”
But there was another name which they served――a name which Benton King
had declared rightfully belonged to the man who called himself Tom
Locke.