“AND DID NOT UNDERSTAND”
A short time later, with his playing suit in the hand bag he carried,
Locke left the hotel and started for the railway station, where he
would join the other members of the team, all of whom, save Hutchinson
and himself, were stopping at a boarding house. As he swung down the
street, Janet Harting came out of a store and turned toward him. He
saw her, and his heart jumped. She saw him, and in a moment she turned
squarely around and hastened the other way, vanishing beyond the first
corner.
He knew she had seen him this time and deliberately avoided him; there
could be no question about it. The evening before he had come upon her
suddenly on the street, lifted his hat, and spoken; but she had passed
on without a word or a token to betray that he had been observed.
Although it seemed impossible then that she had failed to see him, he
was not positive; now, however, he knew, and the knowledge left him
breathless and dazed. When he reached the corner beyond which she had
disappeared she was far along the street, and hurrying as if in great
fear that he would pursue her.
“It’s too much for me,” he murmured. “It’s got me guessing. There’s no
getting around it, she dodged me. Why? She saw me last night, and did
not speak. Why? I can hardly believe it of her. What have I done? She
is the last person I’d ever fancied would do anything of the sort.”
He did not long remain in doubt, for he was not a dull-witted man. The
controversy about him was the cause of it all; she had heard what every
one in Kingsbridge who took the slightest interest in baseball had
heard, and she believed that he had spoken falsely to her. Impulsive,
indignant, scornful, she wished to have nothing further to do with
a man who could look straight into her eyes and tell her an untruth
without a blush or as much as the turning of a hair.
“That’s it,” he said. “There’s no other explanation. I must call on her
this evening, after we get back, and tell her the straight truth.”
The truth! If he had not been truthful, was he silly enough to fancy
penitence would help him now?
The day proved tiresome and wretched for Tom Locke, and it was far
from satisfactory for his teammates, with Fryeburg winning through a
ninth-inning rally that tied the score and a batting streak in the
tenth which earned them the run they needed, with only one out. Stark,
seeing the pitcher had wilted, and fearing the batters who were coming
up, asked Hutchinson to call Lefty in to save the day; but the manager
grimly refused.
The train bore the defeated players back to a late supper in
Kingsbridge, for up there supper was the evening meal. On the way,
Jack Hinkey asked if any one had heard anything about Bancroft’s new
pitcher, and the others confessed that they had not.
“Feller tole me t’-day,” said Hinkey, “that Riley had signed a new
twirler who’d be run in agin’ us t’-morrer. An’ he’s a port-side
flinger by the name of Craddock. Anybody ever hear of him?”
They confessed that they had not. Locke was the only man who did not
answer. Sitting some seats ahead of the others and on the opposite side
of the car, he was gazing glumly out at the whirling landscape, his
face as dark as the purple shadows hovering at the base of a distant
line of hills.
“Hey, Tom,” called Larry Stark, “did you get what Hink was telling us?”
Locke started, shook himself a bit, and turned.
“I was thinking just then,” he said. “What was it?”
They told him, and he acknowledged that he knew of no pitcher by the
name of Craddock.
“They say he’s a hot article,” said Hinkey. “Feller that tole me ’bout
him seemed to think we was goin’ to git up ag’inst the real thing
t’-morrer.”
“What you tryin’ to do,” growled Sockamore, “frighten Lefty? Look at
him. He’s fergot about Craddock a’ready.”
Locke was again gazing out of the window in a preoccupied, moody manner.
“Whut’s the matter with him?” wondered Hunchy Oulds. “He’s been like
that ’most all day. He must be in love――or sick.”
“Same t’ing,” grinned Labelle.
“Hope he don’t go gittin’ off his feed now,” muttered Hinkey. “He’s
due t’ git his bumps some time, but I’d like ter see him pull through
t’-morrer, ’specially if they do spring a new pitcher on us.”
“Maybe,” said Reddy Crandall, “Hutch won’t work him to-morrow. I was
told by a Fryeburger that there was a meetin’ comin’ on for Thursday
to settle whuther Lefty belongs to us or not, and maybe the games he’s
pitched won’t be counted.”
“They can’t throw them out!” snapped Stark savagely. “They’ve got to
count them. And if we lose Locke we’re going to be in bad.”
“You mean Hazelton, don’t ye?” grinned Hinkey. “They say it’s settled
that that’s his right name. As a rule, I don’t think much of college
guys, but I own up that Lefty is some pitcher, and we’ll miss him.”
Despite his words, his tone was not suggestive of worriment. Hinkey was
one of the men brought to the team by Bob Hutchinson.
Tom Locke did not eat much that night. He hurried to the dining room at
the Central Hotel. Two cups of coffee, hot and strong, made the greater
part of his meal. They steadied him.
Dashing up to his room, he found the blue serge suit, freshly pressed
and carefully laid out on his bed. It took him twenty minutes to make
a complete change, even though he was possessed by an almost feverish
desire to hurry. And, as a rule, when he hurried he could do it in half
that time.
Taking a final peep at himself in the mirror, he extinguished the light
and went out. When bidding him adieu on Sunday, the girl had invited
him to call some time, and he proposed to do so this evening.
As he drew near the parsonage, however, he faltered, and his pace
slackened. She had shunned him upon the street; would she not refuse to
see him now?
“She must give me a chance to explain,” he muttered desperately.
“Surely she’ll do that. I can’t believe she’ll decline to see me for a
few minutes, at least.”
Locke’s pulse beat rapidly. With his handkerchief he wiped his
forehead. It was ridiculous, of course, for a man like him to flush and
shiver like a big boy suffering from his first attack of calf love;
but, try as he might, he could not steady himself as he approached the
cottage and discovered that, though the curtains were drawn, there was
a light in the parlor.
Perhaps Benton King was there! Well, what of it? Was he the man to turn
back and leave the field to a rival? Were King there, it was all the
more reason why he should make haste to put himself right in her eyes.
His jaws set, he followed the walk to the front door, and rang.
One of the parlor windows, near by, was open, but the shade was drawn
well down, so that anybody within the room could not be seen by a
person outside who might seek to look in. As he turned in from the
street, he had fancied he caught the sound of voices drifting out
through that window, and one was, he believed, that of Janet.
Presently the maid came, and he asked for Miss Harting. “I haven’t a
card,” he said. “Please tell her it is Mr. Locke, who would like to see
her a few minutes.”
He was left standing in the hall, which was lighted by the soft glow of
a shaded lamp. In a brief time the maid returned.
“Miss Harting is engaged,” she said, “and cannot see you.”
It seemed that his heart stopped beating, and he stood quite still,
unwilling to believe it could be true. The maid opened the door. He
passed out with the step of a somnambulist.
So, after all, she was that sort of a girl! Only the thoughtless and
shallow render judgment without a proper hearing and an investigation.
He had thought her something more than a girl easily swayed and swept
away by every light, shifting wind; but it now seemed that he had
invested her with imaginary qualities and a character which she did not
possess.
The door closed behind him. His feet threatened to drag as he walked
toward the gate. Suddenly he stiffened at the sound of a laugh heard
through the open window. His teeth clicked, his hands clenched, and
every nerve in his body seemed to jerk taut as a bowstring. King was
there――laughing!
He had turned to face the window, and for a few seconds he stood
perfectly rigid and motionless. He struck no pose, made no gesture; but
he, too, laughed, silently.
“Last time we met,” he breathed at length, “you called me a liar,
Benton King, and I held myself. If you were to repeat that word to me
to-night, I’d knock you down in your tracks.”
His step was steady enough now as he walked away. For a moment he
thought of returning to the hotel and writing her a letter, stating the
truth briefly; but he dismissed the idea almost immediately.
“She’ll find out in time,” he said; “for the whole of Kingsbridge will
know after the meeting Thursday night. When she does find out, perhaps
she’ll be sorry for her mistake, but it will be too late.”