CHAPTER XXXIIITHE TELEGRAM
The days passed without the truth coming to light. At first Brennan set about systematically interviewing every man who had been on the field that day, but without avail. Having failed to arrive at the truth in this manner, and other and more important matters coming up to take his time, he seemed to drop the subject. Those who knew him, however, realized that it would always remain tucked away in some corner of his brain until he had finally solved the mystery.
The work of training proceeded rapidly and successfully to its conclusion as the end of March approached. Each afternoon the cubs fought out their losing battle with the regulars on the diamond. The latter were getting into splendid shape, and their opponents had almost forgotten what it felt like to win a game.
Nevertheless, they never gave up, or slackened their efforts, for the net was drawing closer and closer about them day by day. Every now andthen a youngster would drop out of the race. He was not yet ready for the big game, and had either been sold by the manager, farmed out to a minor league, or released unconditionally.
Of the cub pitchers, only two remained, Locke and Elgin. They were both remarkably good in their way, and the other players were divided as to their relative merits. The almost universal conclusion was that Brennan would keep both with the organization unless something unexpected occurred to give him reason for changing his mind.
Lefty worked strenuously without a let-up. He knew his doubtful points almost as well as the manager himself, and strove with all his might to correct them.
Hard as the labor was physically, the southpaw found it anything but disagreeable. He was well liked by most of the regulars and a great many of the cubs. In Buck Fargo he found a real chum whom he came to admire and think better of every day. When the diminishing number of players made a readjustment of rooms at the hotel desirable, Locke accepted with alacrity the big backstop’s invitation to come in with him, an arrangement which proved pleasant and satisfactory.
With Bert Elgin and his little group of cronies,the southpaw had nothing whatever to do. The former had apparently resigned himself to the inevitable, and, since it looked as if both cub pitchers were going to be retained, he seemed to have given up his efforts to injure his rival.
There were just two things which marred Lefty’s pleasure and absolute peace of mind. The first was Jim Brennan’s attitude of noncommittal impassiveness. Try as he would, the southpaw found it impossible to break down the barrier of reserve between them. No matter how good a showing the cub might make on the field, he never succeeded in eliciting a word of praise from the manager. The latter always gave the young twirler an impression of withholding judgment, a feeling that he was continually searching for something in Locke which he was constantly expecting but had failed to find.
At first Lefty thought it was simply his ordinary manner. Then, when he noticed the manager unbend time after time to others, he reached the conclusion that Brennan had never forgotten the circumstances of the recruit’s arrival at training camp, and that he still felt resentment at the manner in which Locke had been, as it were, thrust down his throat.
The explanation of this latter fact had beenabsurdly simple. Lefty learned in a roundabout way that Jimmy Toler’s letter had traveled to Ashland, Tennessee, and drifted on to the Texan town a couple of days after the busher’s arrival. It seemed incredible that any man could harbor such a thing so long, but Brennan was peculiar in many ways, and Lefty could think of no other reason for his conduct.
The other matter which marred his contentment was the fact that Janet, while actually in the same State, was just beyond his reach. It was more tantalizing than if she had remained in that far-away New England town. They corresponded regularly, of course, but letters are always more or less unsatisfactory. Only once had he obtained permission to be away over Sunday, and Brennan’s grudging acquiescence to his request made him resolve never to repeat it.
And so the time passed until there remained less than two days more at Ashland. On the twenty-fifth the training quarters would be deserted, and the teams, separating, would commence their homeward march by easy stages and different routes, playing exhibition games with minor-league organizations along the way.
The days had sped with such swiftness that Lefty could scarcely believe the end to be so nearwhen he arose that morning, and could say that to-morrow they would start. There was no doubting the fact, however, and, what was more, that very afternoon, a game had been arranged with one of the most prominent teams of the Southern League. It was the first chance the Hornets had been given to play against outsiders since that brief, disastrous contest with the Broncs, and they were agog with eager anticipation. The Flamingoes were in quite a different class from the bush organization of so-called Texans, and the game was likely to be exceedingly close. Lefty was to start off on the slab, so Brennan had briefly informed him the afternoon before. The youngster wondered whether the manager had any special motive in picking him.
As the squad started for the field after breakfast, Lefty discovered that he had forgotten his glove, and hurried upstairs for it, telling Fargo that he would be along shortly. When he came down he raced through the lobby and almost upset a small boy in uniform who was coming up the steps.
“Say, mister,” the latter inquired, as he recovered his balance, “is Tom Locke inside?”
“That’s my name,” Lefty answered swiftly. “What is it?”
The boy drew a yellow envelope from his pocket, and Locke snatched it with that queer, sinking feeling which an unexpected missive of the sort usually arouses. Tearing it swiftly open, he brought forth the sheet and unfolded it with a single motion.
As his eyes took in the contents at a glance, he drew his breath swiftly, his face turning a shade less brown. The message had been sent from Billings, Texas, that morning. It read:
Father is dying. Come at once. I am all alone.Janet.
Father is dying. Come at once. I am all alone.
Janet.