CHAPTER XLVICLEARED UP
The youthful stranger handed over a large, square, flat package, and Locke quickly removed the wrapper, displaying a group photograph of a team of youthful baseball players, upon the breasts of whose shirts could be seen the word “Princeton.”
“This,” said Tom, displaying the picture, “shows the Princeton College nine of this season, with the name of every player printed at the bottom. Here you may see the name of Hazelton, followed by the letter P, and I would like to have you look at it well; look at it, and see if you would call it my picture. Also look over the rest of the faces to see if you can find mine among them.”
Shaking with excitement, his eyes bulging with wonder, Henry Cope was standing on his toes to peer at the picture over Locke’s shoulder. Anson Graham was looking at it, too; and, with the exception of Hutchinson and King, the others flocked round to get a peep.
“Great sassafras!” spluttered Cope. “I writa letter, makin’ Paul Hazelton an offer to pitch for Kingsbridge, andyoucome in answer to that letter. You likewise sent me a message—”
“Saying: ‘Coming, P. Hazelton,’” interrupted Locke. “Of course, it never occurred to you that there might be two Hazeltons. I have never denied that my name is Hazelton, but I have denied repeatedly that it is Paul Hazelton. It is Philip. Four years ago I pitched a few games for the Princeton varsity in my junior year, but was obliged to give it up because of the opposition of my father, a clergyman, who, having had a friend killed in the game, has a perfect horror of it.
“My younger brother, Paul, having caught the fever, has incurred the displeasure of our strait-laced father to the extent of being refused further financial assistance in completing his college career. Paul told me of this, and, at the same time, of a splendid offer he had received to pitch professionally on a bush-league team. He had this year made a record for himself with his college team, but it looked as if he would be forced to play for money in order to pay his way through college.
“One year—spent mainly in waiting for clients—as a lawyer in a small city had not placed me in position to help him, but finally I was struck withthe idea of filling that baseball opening in his place. Belonging to an athletic club, I had kept in good condition, having continued to pitch occasionally after graduating from college. In ten or twelve weeks of summer baseball, at the salary offered, I could earn enough to pay my brother’s expenses at Princeton for the coming year.
“If the man who had made the offer were to learn that it was a brother of the famous Princeton pitcher who responded, instead of the pitcher himself, he might be inclined to cut down the amount he had flourished as such an alluring bait, and hence it was decided not to take him into our confidence. Mr. Cope, I humbly crave your pardon.”
“Oh, thunder!” exclaimed the delighted grocer. “Don’t mention it! Lordy! Lordy! Ain’t it funny!”
There were some persons present, however, to whom the humor of the situation made no appeal whatever.
The Kingsbridge pitcher continued:
“As the given name of both my brother and myself begins with P, the mistake of the photographer who handed out one of my pictures when Mr. King’s obliging friend called for a photograph of Paul Hazelton is readily understood.In order to settle this controversy for all time, I thought best to wire my brother to come on, and it was to meet him here in Bancroft that I left Kingsbridge this morning. Gentlemen, let me introduce Paul Hazelton.”
The youthful stranger who had arrived in company with the bell boy bowed and smiled.
“I’m it,” he said. “But, to judge by his record in this league, when it comes to pitching, I’m an ‘also ran’ compared with Phil.”
“It should be plain to you now, Mr. Riley,” said Philip Hazelton grimly, “that you made a very bad break when you produced a letter, seemingly in my handwriting, dated at Princeton, and signed with the name of Paul Hazelton. Mr. Hutchinson, also, has blundered in— Oh, by the way where is he? He seems to be missing.”
“He’s sneaked,” cried Sammy Bryant. “He got out when nobody was lookin’.”
“He’d better sneak,” declared Henry Cope. “I don’t blame him a bit for skedaddlin’ outer here. He’d better git outer Kingsbridge in a hurry, too.”
The following evening found Philip Hazelton meditating over a daintily perfumed note that had been brought him by a boy. A dozen timeshe read it; as many times he started up, as if with a purpose, only to falter.
At last, however, he literally tore the blue-serge suit off the hangers in the wardrobe, and lost no time in donning it, save that wasted through the fumbling produced by his almost frantic haste.
“After all,” he told himself, rejoicing, “she wasn’t to blame. King did it with that photograph. It’s no wonder she thought me untruthful. Will I call at eight this evening; will Ipleasecall at eight? Will I! It’s almost half past seven now. I’m afraid I never can wait for eight o’clock.”
It was Janet herself who let him in when he rang at the parsonage door.
“Mr. Locke—I mean Hazelton,” she said, “I want to offer you a humble apology. It was simply dreadful of me. Can you pardon me?”
He did not leave her long in doubt, and the pleasure of that Sunday meeting in the woods paled in comparison with the delight of the ensuing hour. Henry Cope had improved the first opportunity to tell her all that had taken place at the meeting in Bancroft.
“Oh,” she cried, when she thought of it, as they sat close together in the parlor, “I have a surprise for you. I told my father all about it,and he says he knows your father; that they were chums at college. Isn’t that a delightful coincidence. And father wants to meet you, and I think—I’m quite sure—he’ll form a better opinion of some baseball players. I’m going to make him let me attend every game here in Kingsbridge. He just can’t keep me away, that’s all.”
Little did she realize when she spoke that she was destined to witness Lefty’s struggles and success as a Major League pitcher afar from Kingsbridge and the “bush” where he had created such a sensation. The story of his first season in fast company is told in the next volume of this series, the title of which is, “Lefty o’ the Big League.”
In the course of their chat, he mentioned his sister, whom he affectionately called “Tid,” but, as she turned away at that moment, he failed to detect the strange look that flashed into Janet’s eyes. When he finally left, she accompanied him to the door to let him out. The shaded lamp in the hall was low and dim, and they stood there some moments, close together, speaking in subdued tones, save when—
After he was gone, she lingered by the door, listening to the sound of his footsteps until it died away on the silent street.
THE END