THE BELL BOY
On Wednesday Bancroft was to play again in Kingsbridge, and Thursday
was to be the “middle of the week lay-off” for both the Bullies and the
Kinks.
Tuesday’s early mail brought Henry Cope a letter bearing the Bancroft
postmark, and he opened it somewhat nervously. As he apprehended, it
contained a communication from Anson Graham, president of the Northern
League, giving notice that there would be held at the office of Rufus
Kilgore, in Bancroft, on Thursday evening, at eight o’clock, a meeting
of the league directors to consider the protest of Manager Riley
relative to Paul Hazelton, “playing with Kingsbridge under the assumed
name of Tom Locke.”
“By gum!” growled the grocer disgustedly. “They actually do mean
business. We’re up ag’inst it. The boy better know ’bout this right
away.”
He found Locke making ready to start for Fryeburg, where the team was
to play that afternoon. The young man seemed strangely depressed, and
his face wore a deep frown as he read the notice, which Cope had handed
him. The grocer anxiously regarded the expression on the pitcher’s face.
“Well?” he asked, as Tom returned the notice.
“It is fortunate,” said Locke grimly, “that I fancied this meeting
might be called on short notice, and made preparations for it.”
“Hey? You’ve made preparations?”
“Yes.”
“Whut sort o’ preparations?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Cope; I shall be ready for them, I think.”
“Then you’re dead sartin old Riley ain’t got no holt on ye?”
“How many times,” asked the young pitcher impatiently, “must I tell you
so, Mr. Cope?”
“You know it’s got round somehow that you’ve denied p’int-blank that
you’re Hazelton, and some folks――they’s alwus that kind in ev’ry
town――are sayin’ they reckon you lied,” stammered the grocer. “You
ain’t never denied that your name’s Hazelton, have ye?”
Tom Locke frowned, but made no answer to the question.
“As fur’s I’m concerned,” said Cope, “when they’ve tried to corner me,
I’ve dodged or refused to answer. It’s too bad, boy; I’m mighty sorry
it’s all goin’ to come out who ye be, but ’twarn’t my fault. I’ve kep’
my part of our agreement.”
“I haven’t any doubt of that. It’s simply the result of unfortunate
circumstances and the determination of somebody to do me a bad turn.
Mr. Cope, I’m not a trouble breeder, but, as you have used me square
and I am genuinely interested in the team, I’m going to give you a tip
to keep an eye on your manager. Nor does this come wholly, or even
mainly, from the fact that I do not like him personally; I have reasons
to believe that he is not on the level.”
“Hum!” grunted the grocer; “we hired him on good recommendation, but I
don’t mind tellin’ you privately that I’ve got a feelin’ myself that he
ain’t to be trusted too fur. He’s fer puttin’ you on the bench until
arter this fuss over you is settled, an’ that don’t sound good t’ me. I
want you to pitch agin’ Bancroft ag’in to-morrer.”
“And I want to pitch against them,” said Tom warmly; “but you’ll find
that Hutchinson will object.”
“As long as you insist that they can’t count out the games that you
win, I’m goin’ to set on the bench myself an’ see that you pitch
to-morrer.”
“Good! I hope I’m in my best form, for I hear that Riley has had his
men batting industriously in practice against a left-handed pitcher.
Being left-handed helped me against his left-handed hitters at first
before I had them sized up; but I’ve made a study of them for weak
spots, and, though they are called sluggers, he has no Wagners or
Lajoies――men who can bump any kind of a ball that comes within reach of
their bats. They have their failings, every one of them, and, with good
control and good support, I should be able to take another fall out of
them.”
The door of the room had been left slightly ajar by Cope. Outside that
door a hesitating bell boy stood listening to the talk of the two men.
Hearing some one turn the knob of a door farther along the corridor,
the boy hastily lifted his hand and knocked. At Locke’s call, he pushed
the door open, and entered.
“Hello, Sam,” said the pitcher. “On the bed there――that suit needs
pressing; take it to the tailor, will you, and tell him I want it back
to-night? Here!”
He extended a silver half dollar, but the boy, who had gathered up the
suit of dark-blue serge from the bed, drew back, looking confused.
“What’s the matter, Sam?” asked Locke, a bit impatiently. “You’ve been
doing some little favors for me of late.”
“I’d rather not take it, sir,” said the boy, his lids lowered and his
gaze on the floor. “I hope ye don’t mind, sir.”
“Why, I don’t understand――”
“You――you was good to my little brother, Jimmy, when he cut his foot,
and――and I’d rather not take anything, sir.”
Locke laughed for the first time that day, slipping the piece of silver
into the genuinely unwilling hand of the boy.
“I reckon I owe Jimmy and his friends something, instead of the shoe
being on the other foot,” he said enigmatically. “So Jimmy is your
brother? I didn’t know that. You haven’t a high opinion of me as a
pitcher, have you, Sam?”
“Oh, I was jest talkin’ to hear myself talk,” answered the boy quickly,
his face turning crimson. “Did Jimmy tell you that?”
“I overheard it quite by accident. How’s his foot?”
“Oh, he ain’t caperin’ round on it much yit; but it’ll be all right
pretty soon. I wisht you’d take this half back. Paw, he asked the doc,
and the doc, he said there warn’t nothin’ t’ pay for tendin’ Jimmy’s
foot, ’cause you had paid; an’ I’d like ter do somethin’ to sorter
make it square.”
“All right; keep the half now, and we’ll begin afresh. Now that I know
I can do it, I’ll impose on you frightfully; I’ll keep you hopping for
me in great shape. Say, hustle along and get that suit to the tailor,
or he’ll not have it pressed for me to wear this evening; and I may
want it.” He swung the door wide open, pushed the boy out, and closed
it behind him.
“Fust time,” observed Henry Cope, “I ever knew a Bryant t’ try to
refuse money. They’re a pretty shif’less, worthless bunch, that
family.”