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.”