CHAPTER XXXIVNOTHING ELSE POSSIBLE
“Any answer?”
Lefty raised his head and stared stupidly at the boy for an instant. Then he came to himself.
“Yes! Give me a pencil—quick!”
Snatching the stub from the other’s hand, he turned the message over, placed the paper against the side of the building, and hastily scrawled a few words.
“There!” he exclaimed, thrusting it at the boy; “send that off right away. Don’t lose a minute. Here. Keep the change.”
It was a silver dollar he handed the boy. Without waiting for thanks, he darted back into the hotel, hastily secured a time-table, and found that there was a train leaving in less than half an hour. It was only after he had reached his room and begun to strip off his baseball togs that he realized he must let Brennan know in some way of what he planned to do.
“There’s no ’phone at the park,” he muttered,throwing a shoe into a corner. “I haven’t time, anyway.”
He tore off his stockings, flung shirt and trousers on the floor, and made a dive for his street clothes.
“Still, they’ll all be back here for dinner,” he went on aloud. “If I leave a note with Buck, he’ll put the old man wise. It’s tough! Poor little girl!”
His voice broke just the least bit, but he went on rapidly with his dressing, and in less than ten minutes was ready to go. He gave no thought to the consequences of his leaving in this manner and at this time. Janet had called him for help; he must go to her. Besides, even Brennan, though he might growl and grumble a little, would understand how impossible it was for him to take any other course.
Finding a sheet of paper, Lefty hastily scrawled a note to Buck, telling his chum where he had gone and why, and asking him to inform the manager. Having folded the paper and written Fargo’s name on the outside, he placed it on the middle of the table, where the big backstop could not fail to see it the instant he entered the room.
That finished, he snatched his hat, and darteddown the stairs without waiting for the elevator. At the station he had nearly fifteen minutes to wait, but at last the train pulled in.
Lefty thought that the journey would never end. The train seemed to crawl along at a snail’s speed, stopping at every little hamlet by the way. He blamed the doctor at Kingsbridge for having suggested such an impossibly out-of-the-way place as Billings. He kept looking at his watch till he might better have held it in his hand. He bought a paper, and tossed it away unread. He opened a magazine, only to fling it aside impatiently. And all the time the thought of Janet, alone and helpless in this terrible situation, never left his mind.
At Flat Rock Junction he had to change to another road. There was an exasperating wait of three-quarters of an hour, during which he nearly wore a rut in the wooden platform. Another weary, interminable hour followed; but at last, shortly after one, he flung himself off the still-moving train at Billings, and dashed up the main street.
The air was soft and warm and caressing. Trees and shrubs were bursting into leaf; flowers were everywhere. Here and there a bird caroled joyously, and the sound stabbed Lefty like thethrust of a knife. How could any living thing be joyful when her father lay dying?
Rounding a corner, he scarcely dared look at the house where they had taken lodgings. Perhaps he had come too late. Perhaps it was all over.
He reached the wooden gate and thrust it open. A rustle of skirts sounded on the vine-clad porch, the quick catching of a breath, then a cry of glad surprise:
“Why, Lefty!”
She started up from the rocking-chair, her face pink and her eyes sparkling. A little smile curved the corners of her tender mouth, bringing out the dimple which had always fascinated him.
The man stared up in petrified astonishment. What did it mean? Was he dreaming, or had she gone daft?
“Why, Lefty!” she exclaimed again. “This is splendid! How did you ever manage to get away?”
He swallowed hard and, without knowing what he did, wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead.
“I came,” he gasped. “Your—father, Janet?”
A little frown of perplexity came into her forehead.
“Father?” she repeated. “Why, he’s all right. The springs are doing him no end of good. He’s taking his nap just now. Did you—”
“You didn’t send me a telegram this morning, then?” Locke interrupted in a strange voice.
“No, of course not. Why should I? I wrote you last night, but it was only— Lefty! What is it? For goodness sake, tell me what has happened.”
The skin over his jaws was hard as marble. The blood had rushed into his face, turning it a dull crimson under the brown, and bringing out a throbbing vein in his temple in bold relief. His lips were pressed tightly together, and the eyes fixed on the girl were not his eyes. They were wide open and almost black, full of cold, consuming wrath. They frightened Janet Harting, and made her step back involuntarily.
“Lefty!” she cried again. “What is it? What makes you look so?”
For an instant he did not answer. He had realized the bitter truth. The telegram was a forgery, sent for the sole and only purpose of getting him out of the way at the very time of all others during his baseball career that he should have been on the job. In a flash an illumination which comes too seldom to a man told him that Brennan’s reasonfor putting him on the slab to-day was in the nature of a final test of his ability. The other game had shown the manager nothing. This would have been the ultimate proof of his fitness to be retained as a member of the squad—and he would not be there to take advantage of the chance.
Swiftly he glanced at his watch, the girl staring anxiously at him the while. He took out a crumpled time-table. The first train left at two-twenty. As he thrust the time-table back into his pocket, his face relaxed a little and a faint smile twisted the corners of his mouth.
“There’s been an unfortunate—mistake, Janet,” he said quietly. “I’ll come up and tell you about it.”
He had remembered the one consoling feature of the whole miserable business. Buck would surely find the letter and explain the matter to Brennan. The manager would doubtless be angry, but, after all, it was not as bad as if no word at all had been left.