Lefty’s face turned a dull red, for in a flash he had realized how intolerable the whole affair must seem to Janet Harting. He had assured her that his engagement at the theater that night was with some of his teammates, yet here she found him the only escort of a very charming young woman, of whose identity she could naturally have no idea.
Moreover, Lefty’s being in full dress did not savor altogether of a stag party. Worst of all, the young man remembered, with a sickening sense of irritation, how swiftly he and Miss Collier had come to be on almost chummy terms. An onlooker would never have supposed their acquaintance to be only a few hours old, and Janet had been sitting near enough to miss nothing.
All this passed through Lefty’s mind with a rush. For an instant he had an almost uncontrollable impulse to push his way through to Miss Harting’s side and explain the innocent facts, which must have looked so condemning. Then he realized how impossible was the time and place for explanations, and, pulling himself together, moved slowly on toward the entrance.
Miss Collier could scarcely have missed the little incident, swiftly as it had taken place; but apparently she was possessed of tact, along with a number of other good qualities, for she made not the slightest reference to it. During the ride uptown she chatted unconcernedly on various topics, but it must be confessed that she had to uphold the burden of conversation; about nine-tenths of Lefty’s mind was taken up with a consideration of his predicament, and with planning a way out of it.
“Thank you a thousand times, Mr. Locke,” Miss Collier said, when the car had stopped and he had helped her out. “I’ve had a perfectly splendid evening.”
“It’s been corking,” Lefty returned, trying to force a little enthusiasm into his voice. “I’m the one who should be thanking you.”
“I don’t believe it,” smiled the girl, holding out her hand. “Have Pagdon drive you wherever you want to go. Dad won’t want him yet, I’m sure. Come and see me some time when you haven’t anything better to do. We’ll finish our talk about Marquard. Good night.”
Without giving him time to answer she ran lightly up the steps to the already open door, which closed quickly upon her slim, graceful figure, leaving Locke to return slowly to the limousine, give the address of his hotel to the chauffeur, and step frowningly in.
“What a thundering jackass I am!” he muttered, leaning back against the leather cushions. “Why in Heaven’s name didn’t I cut out the party and go see Janet in spite of everything? How the deuce did I know that Collier was going to rope me into a game like that, though—or that Janet would be there to misconstrue everything? I s’pose she went to get a glimpse of me. Well, the sooner I chase up there and explain things to her the better. I wonder if it’s too late to go to-night?”
He glanced at his watch. It was decidedly too late.
“I’ll hike up the first thing in the morning,” he thought. “She’ll understand that I couldn’t do anything else under the circumstances.”
There was some comfort in the reflection that Janet had plenty of sound common sense in that shapely little head of hers. Nevertheless, the more he thought of it, the more Lefty realized what a scurvy trick fate had played him.
“It certainly must have looked bad,” he admitted to himself as the car stopped before the hotel. “I wouldn’t blame any girl for getting up on her ear.”
In the lobby he was met by his three deserted companions, who instantly let fly a Gatling fire of comment.
“Horning in with the management, are you?” grinned Nelson. “Just the same, I like your taste, kid. Some class there, all right!”
“You bet!” chimed in Billy Orth. “What do you want to be such a hog for, though? Might have given somebody else a chance with one of ’em.”
“Spilled the beans that time, old man,” Dalton added significantly. “Hard luck, boy. Who’d ever have thought the other one would turn up that way, and pinch you—”
“Oh, go to blazes, the lot of you!” snapped Lefty, his face crimson.
Without another word he strode toward the elevator, leaving Dalton—who had met Miss Harting in Boston, and shrewdly guessed that there was something more than passing friendship between the two—eying his companions with lifted brows.
“Our genial southpaw seems somewhat peeved,” Larry murmured. “Have we touched upon a raw spot unawares?”
Orth yawned. “Must be in a pretty bad way,” he commented. “I never knew him to give up like that without a word to say. Let’s hit the hay; I’m sleepy.”
Rather silently the others followed him toward the elevator. Though there were no further remarks on the subject, they were all wondering what had happened to make the usually quick-witted, even-tempered Locke flare up the way he had at a little good-natured joshing, which ordinarily would have brought forth nothing more than a grin and a retort in kind.
The object of their solicitude was thinking pretty much the same thing. He had scarcely set foot in the elevator before he regretted that silly burst of temper.
“Looks as if I was bound to make a fool of myself to-night,” he thought. “I reckon I’m in bad all around.”
He did not sleep well, and was up early. Having hurried through his breakfast, he dawdled around with a newspaper until eight o’clock, and then sought the telephone booth. A woman’s voice—Janet’s aunt, no doubt—answered his call.
“Is Miss Harting in?” he asked quickly.
“Who is this, please?”
“Mr. Hazelton. I won’t keep her for more—”
“I’m sorry,” interrupted the voice, with a curt, crisp intonation which belied the words, “but Miss Harting is too busy to come to the telephone.”
“Will she be at home— Hang it all! She’s cut off.”
Lefty slammed up the receiver, and sat scowling for a moment at the instrument.
“Might think I’d committed a crime,” he growled at last. “Won’t even give me a chance to say a word in my own defense.” His jaw squared stubbornly. “I’ll make her listen to me,” he went on. “I’ll go up there and see her, whether she’s at home or not. I’ll go now, too.”
This was easier said than done. Emerging from the booth, Lefty was waylaid by Spider Grant, captain of the team, who wasted a good half hour in desultory discussion of their chances for winning the third game of the series from the Specters that afternoon. It might have continued for an hour and a half had not Locke departed unceremoniously in the very midst of one of Spider’s most elaborate arguments.
“If hot air would win the game, we wouldn’t need to go out to the park,” he muttered grumpily as he leaped aboard an open car.
Of course there was a block; equally of course, Lefty fretted and fumed and wasted his good energy and invention in uncomplimentary remarks about the road and its operators. He was compelled to walk the last twelve blocks. When he at last arrived at the apartment house his mental condition was far from enviable.
“Not at home,” said the maid, with cool brevity.
As she started to close the door Lefty placed one foot over the sill, with apparent carelessness. His earnestness of purpose was dimming the brightness of his manners.
“Are you sure?” he asked suspiciously. “I only want to see Miss Harting for a minute.”
“Indeed!” sniffed the girl. “Well, you’ll have to wait some time before you get the chance. She and Mrs. Manning are leaving on the night train for the Adirondacks.”
“The Adirondacks!” gasped Lefty. “To-night!” He stood staring at the maid for a moment in utter dismay. “But I must see them before they go. Haven’t you any idea where they are now?”
“No more’n a fly,” returned the girl, evidently softened a little by his distress. “They went right after the trunks was took—shoppin’, I s’pose. Anyhow, Mrs. Manning said they wouldn’t be back.”
How Lefty went through the rest of the morning he did not know. What had been started by a trivial trick of chance seemed to be growing more serious every moment. Evidently Janet believed the worst of him. It was equally evident that she was determined to give him no opportunity to explain the mix-up. Her behavior hurt Lefty desperately. It seemed unfair and unjust that she should have so little faith in him, in spite of appearances.
For several hours he wandered about the shopping district, in the vague hope that somehow he might run across the girl. Failing in that, he lunched in gloomy solitude, then made his way to the ball park.
For six innings he sat on the bench in grim silence while “Slick” Lumley held down the Specters to a shut-out score. Slick was one of those pitchers who are unsurpassed when they are good, but who seldom last through an entire game. Evidently Carson did not propose to run any chances of his blowing up this time, for at the beginning of the seventh, with Lumley showing sudden wildness, he took him off the mound and substituted Billy Orth.
It was during that inning that Lefty got up from the bench to stretch his legs, and became aware for the first time of the presence of Miss Collier in the box with her father. She nodded cordially, and it seemed only natural for him to step up and say a few words to her.
The few words lengthened into a prolonged conversation. The club owner had a good many questions to ask about Lefty’s father, and Virginia herself was so bright and cheery and interesting that the young pitcher was raised from the depths of despondency in spite of himself.
For three innings he stood leaning against the rail of the box. Toward the end he was talking and laughing almost as if he hadn’t a thing on his mind to worry him. Several times his glance wandered back into the stands to where sat a young man of about his own age, who seemed much more interested in the party in the box than in the game. The fellow’s expression was so bitter, and he stared so fixedly at the famous southpaw, that Lefty wondered if he had ever met the chap before, or whether it was simply one of those curious dislikes certain fans seem to take to a player every once in a while.
Locke was still wondering when Orth struck out the last man, winning the game by a score of two to one, and the crowd began to pour out of their seats to jam the aisles and runways.
The next second Lefty gave a start, and the color drained swiftly from his face. He had caught a brief, fleeting glimpse of a girl who had been seated well back in the lower stand. Her face had been invisible all through the game, but now, as she arose and stepped into the aisle, he saw it clearly for an instant before she was swallowed up in the mob. It was the face of the girl he had been seeking all day in vain.
Before he realized what he was doing, he had leaped for the nearest gate, and swung it open. Then he stopped, with a groan. It would be like hunting a needle in a haystack to try and find her in this crush. She might leave at any of a dozen exits before he could reach even one of them.
For a moment he stood there, a scowl on his face, bitterness in his heart. Why had she come to the grounds at all? Was it to see him without the chance of being seen? Well, she had accomplished her purpose with a vengeance; she had beheld him chatting and laughing intimately with the same girl she supposed he had taken to the theater last night.
With a groan of disappointment and mental pain, Lefty whirled around and tramped sullenly across the field toward the clubhouse. He did not give a single backward glance at the charming Miss Collier. He had forgotten her very existence in the irritation and trouble which this new complication had brought upon him.