FACING HIS ACCUSERS
Seasonable July weather caused discomfort for the seven persons
assembled in the dingy office of Rufus Kilgore for the purpose of
attending the meeting called to consider Manager Mike Riley’s claims.
Riley himself, in his shirt sleeves, sat with his back toward one of
the wide-open windows, a handkerchief tucked round his neck inside his
collar, grumbling and smoking. Anson Graham, president of the league,
a serious, middle-aged man, with block-trimmed whiskers, who had the
look of one who might be just, but would rarely temper his justice with
mercy, was talking to Kilgore, the secretary of the organization, who
occupied the chair at the desk.
David Farman and William Jones, representing Fryeburg and Lakeport,
respectively, were aimlessly discussing various topics, such as the
weather, crop prospects, and the ardent desire that the usual number
of boarders from the city might be netted by the blandishments of
advertisements which pictured the part of the country in which they
were interested as a summer Eden. Benton King, appearing restless,
talked in low tones to the ever-icy Bob Hutchinson.
“Confound it!” growled Riley, looking at his watch. “Where’s Hen Cope
’n’ that man Hazelton? It’s one minute of time fur the meetin’ to
begin, ’n’ they oughter be here.”
“Perhaps they won’t come,” said the lawyer. “Cope is a mule, and he may
try to block proceedings by staying away.”
“But he can’t do that,” rasped Mike. “We can go ahead without him. It’s
time. Hadn’t you better call the meetin’ to order, Mr. Graham?”
At this moment, footsteps were heard on the stairs, and the door
opened, to admit the puffing Kingsbridge grocer, who paused to remove
his hat, mop his shining, moist dome, and look the assemblage over.
“Good evenin’, ever’body,” he said pleasantly. “On time, ain’t I?”
“Just about, an’ that’s all,” answered Riley. “Where’s th’ slip’ry guy
that’s caused all this trouble?”
“You mean Locke? Ain’t he here?”
“I mean Hazelton, ’n’ he ain’t here.”
“That’s strange,” said Cope, plainly a trifle disturbed. “He lef’
Kingsbridge on the early train this mornin’, sayin’ that he’d meet me
here to-night. I thought sure I’d find him waitin’.”
“Left town, hey?” cried Riley. “Left town this mornin’! Well, I swear!
So help me, he’s skipped!”
He was not the only one through whose head had passed the same thought,
but Henry Cope immediately raised an agitated protest against such
an idea, asserting his belief that the absent man would put in an
appearance. They were induced to wait a while, although it was likely
that Cope was the only one who was not satisfied that time was being
wasted. In his heart, even the grocer began to doubt.
As the minutes ticked away, Cope looked anxious, Riley smoked and
growled, Hutchinson remained cool, and Benton King fidgeted. Finally
Anson Graham said:
“Gentlemen, it is now ten minutes past the time set for this meeting to
be called, and I think we had better proceed without further delay; for
it seems that the party accused does not intend to appear in his own
defense. If you will please come to order, the secretary will read the
protest of Manager Riley which led to――”
Breathless and anxious, Henry Cope had been listening to the sound of
hurried footsteps on the stairs, and now, as the door was thrust open
and the tardy one stepped in, he gave an exclamation of great relief
and satisfaction.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said Tom Locke, his face flushed. “I
believe I am somewhat late, but it was the fault of my watch, which I
have discovered is slow. I hope I have not kept you waiting long.”
He bowed to everybody in a general, pleasant way, smiling on Cope, who
had sprung forward to grip his hand.
“I knowed you’d come,” said the grocer. “I told them you’d be here.
Now, gents, you can go ahead.”
A hard gleam had appeared in the eyes of Tom Locke as he noted the
presence of Benton King, but, after the first swift glance, he ignored
the lumberman’s son.
The meeting was called to order in the regular manner, and Kilgore
read the written protest of Manager Riley, which, as it appeared, had
privately been formally worded by the lawyer himself. The document
curtly charged that “the baseball player passing under the name of
Tom Locke and appearing as a member of the Kingsbridge team of the
Northern League” was in reality Paul Hazelton, of Princeton, and
made the claim that, because of “unterminated negotiations,” Riley
held an indisputable right to the man’s services. Locke’s face wore a
half-mocking smile as he listened to the reading.
“You have heard the charge, sir,” said Anson Graham, turning to Tom.
“What answer have you to make?”
This was the moment Cope had dreaded, but his pitcher had given
assurance that he would be ready to meet every charge, and he waited
now, his lips parted, for the young man to answer. His surprise,
however, amounted to something bordering on consternation when Locke
quietly replied:
“It seems to me, Mr. President, that the first duty of the man who
makes this charge is to establish that I am the party referred to in
the document.”
“Huh!” grunted Riley, without regard for the regular order of procedure.
“’Twon’t do ye no good to deny it. We’ve got the proof.”
“Pardon me, Riley,” said Graham reprovingly; “I am questioning the
young man. Do you deny, sir, that you are Paul Hazelton, of Princeton?”
“Yes, sir,” was the prompt, clear answer, “I deny it.”
Henry Cope nearly fell off his chair. In great agitation, he reached
out, grasped the speaker’s coat, tugged at it, and whispered:
“Boy, boy, be keerful! It’s too late for that to do any good.”
The dismay of the grocer was apparent to all, and provoked some smiles;
but the unruffled young man simply turned and spoke to him in a low,
calm tone:
“Leave this to me, Mr. Cope, please.”
“In that case,” said the president, maintaining an impartial manner,
“it will be necessary for Manager Riley to produce satisfactory
evidence that you _are_ Paul Hazelton. Mr. Riley, your evidence.”
“I’ve got it,” asserted Mike positively. “Mr. King can show somethin’
that’ll settle the matter in short order.”