Dyke expressed satisfaction, and the hazelnut sparkler in his blazing red tie reflected varicolored gleams from its many facets, as his cupped hands held a burning match to light a fresh cigarette.
As he flung aside the match, and chanced to glance past the far end of the bleachers, his black eyes glinted on beholding a girl in a light dress, shading herself with a pale-blue parasol, and seated in a carriage that had just drawn up in line with others out there. A span of spirited and extremely restless bays were attached to the carriage. At the girl’s side, wearing a light suit, straw hat, and tan driving gloves, sat a square-shouldered young man.
“Hel-lo!” breathed Fancy. “There’s old man King’s cub, with the parson’s daughter. I don’t blame him, for she certainly is some peach. She must be getting independent; last year I offered to get her a season ticket, but she said her hidebound old man wouldn’t let her come to the games, which he considered sinful and poisonous to the morals of the community.”
“Huh!” grunted Riley, eyeing the girl in the carriage. “She’s a year older now, and mebbe she’s given the old pulpit pounder notice that she proposes henceforth to do about as she pleases. I’ve heard she’s ruther high-strung and lively.”
“Well, she’s taking a chance with Bent King, ’cording to his college record. He cut it out so hot that he was fired the second year, and then his old man, feeling somewhat peeved, set him to work in the big mill here. Now the brat’s foreman of the mill, though I reckon it was his father that put him there over better men, and not his ability.”
“Oh, you’re jealous,” chuckled the manager. “She turned you down when you tried to git gay, that’s what’s the matter. You oughter considered, Fancy, that your record was agin’ ye, and that you was known by reputation in Kingsbridge, just as well as in Bancroft. I’ve noticed the right sorter gals don’t travel in your society extensively.”
Dyke’s thin cheek took on a faint flush, and he gnawed with his sharp white teeth one corner of his close-cropped, small black mustache.
“I reckon she’d be as safe with me as with Bent King,” he retorted. “Of course, I know what her old man would think of me; but in these days girls don’t tell their folks about every man they’re friendly with.”
“There’s old Cope speakin’ to her now,” said Riley. “Looket him take the cover off that skatin’ rink of his. There’s real swagger gallantry for ye, Flash.”
A stout, red-faced, jolly-looking man in a somewhat soiled snuff-colored suit had paused beside the carriage to lift his hat and speak to the girl, who greeted him with a charming smile and a show of fetching dimples.
“Howdy-do, Janet,” said the man on the ground. “I’m s’prised to see you here, though I b’lieve you did tell me you was crazy over baseball. Your father’s so set agin’ it that I didn’t s’pose he’d let you come. Howdy-do, Benton. Fine day for the opening.”
“Oh, father is as bad as ever,” laughed the girl; “but I told Bent how much I wanted to come, and he drove round and used his persuasion with daddy, who finally consented, after getting a promise that I would sit in the carriage and not step out of it. It was jolly nice of Benton, for I am crazy over the game, and I’d go to see one every day if I could.”
She was fresh and girlish and unaffected, yet, somehow, she did not give one the impression of crudity and silliness so often shown by a vivacious, blue-eyed blonde. Although very pretty, she was not doll-like, and one who studied her mobile, changeful face would soon discover there, as well as in her voice and manner, unmistakable signs of good breeding and character. Her eyes were unusual; one could not look into their depths without feeling irresistibly attracted toward her.
The young man at her side, a well-set-up chap a trifle above medium height, was the only son of Cyrus King. He was not more than twenty-four, and had a somewhat cynical, haughty face, with a pair of flashing dark eyes and petulant mouth. Nevertheless, when he laughed, which he did quite frequently, he was attractive, almost handsome.
“Yes, Cope,” he nodded, as the older man brought forth a handkerchief and mopped his perspiring bald head; “it certainly is a good day for the opening, and there’s a cracking crowd out to see it. They’re beginning to overflow the seats. Suppose we have any show at all to win?”
“Hey?” cried the chairman of the baseball association. “Any show to win? You bet we have! We’re goin’ to win. We’ve got to have this first game at home.”
“But we’re up against Bancroft, and I see Jock Hoover has just finished warming up to pitch for them.”
“That’ll jest make it all the more interestin’. We’ve got a pitcher, too, I want you to know. I signed him myself, and he’ll make ’em set up and take notice. You jest watch Tom Locke when he goes inter the box.”
“I’ve heard something about him. Who is he? And where did you get him?”
Running the handkerchief round the sweatband inside his soiled straw hat, Henry Cope winked shrewdly, and covered his shining dome.
“Why, didn’t I tell ye his name is Tom Locke? Never mind where I picked him up. He’s got the goods, and he’ll deliver ’em. If he don’t jest naturally make them Bullies break their backs poundin’ empty air to-day, I’ll be the most s’prised man in the county.”
“Oh, I hope he is good!” exclaimed the girl. “Everybody in town was disappointed over the way Bancroft beat us last year. They all said we needed one corking good pitcher to put up against Bancroft’s best man.”
“We’ve got him,” assured Henry Cope. “We’ve got the very feller in this here Locke. You watch and see.”
“There goes the umpire,” said King. “They are going to start the game.”
“Excuse me,” said Cope hastily. “I think I’ll git over by our bench, where I can watch Locke work. That’s him—that tall, slim chap goin’ inter the box now. Jest keep your eye on him. So long.”
He hurried away as the umpire called “play” and Bancroft’s first batter rose and trotted out from the bench.