CHAPTER XXXIITHE INITIALS
He thanked her for the words, and secured his hat and book as they walked slowly toward the log. Tommy was again blowing away at his harmonica, Jimmy was sulking, and the others fell to amusing themselves with a game of hide and seek. Janet sat on the log, and Locke seated himself near her.
“What were you reading?” she asked curiously.
He gave her the book, and she glanced at it. It was a well-thumbed volume of “The Merchant of Venice.”
“My favorite when I read Shakespeare,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I have read it over and over. At the moment when I heard you calling, I was reading Bassanio’s raptures on finding Portia’s portrait in the leaden casket.”
Leaning forward a bit and looking steadily at her, he quoted:
“‘Here are sever’d lips,Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a barShould sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairsThe painter plays the spider and hath wovenA golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men.’”
“‘Here are sever’d lips,Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a barShould sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairsThe painter plays the spider and hath wovenA golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men.’”
“‘Here are sever’d lips,
Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs
The painter plays the spider and hath woven
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men.’”
His voice was low and soft, yet full and deep. Again her eyes drooped before his. One shapely white hand toyed with a loose bit of bark.
“You quote well,” she said, compelling herself to speak calmly, almost carelessly. “You should be a teacher of elocution.”
“The task would be agreeable indeed,” he returned, “if I could choose my pupil.”
“You speak in the singular.”
“Which,” he declared instantly, “is not at all singular, the situation considered. Had I my choice, I’d not seek a pupil beyond this little glade.”
“Oh, if you were to pick one of my Sunday-school class, I’m afraid you would not find the task particularly agreeable. Teaching elocution to Tommy or Jimmy or any of the others would be thankless work.”
He smiled. “I’d not care to seek so far, yet I know it is presumptuous for me to fancy that I could teachyou.”
She flashed him a smile that went to his head like wine and made him long to imprison the dainty hand that was still toying with the bit of loose bark. There was a brief silence, brokenonly by the echoing cries of the romping children.
“Tommy, Tommy!” she cried suddenly, “play ‘Marching Through Georgia.’ Just listen, Mr. Locke; Tommy plays very well for a little fellow. Don’t you think so?”
“To tell the truth, I don’t, but, if you say so, I’ll swear he plays divinely.”
“You have a habit of speaking the truth always?”
“It is my intention to follow the practice when possible.”
“Do you think a lie is ever excusable?”
“One of the leading divines in the country has said that a harmless white lie is permissible when it shields a friend from truth that would cause pain.”
“Do you know there are those who think you were not truthful when you denied that you are Paul Hazelton, of Princeton?”
“I believe that there is one, at least, who thinks so. The doubt in Benton King’s eyes was too plain to escape me.”
“But you arenotPaul Hazelton?”
“I am not. I hope you believe me, Miss Harting.”
“I do,” she answered. “But I can’t understand why they persist in trying to make out thatyou are he. The BancroftNewsprinted a piece that would lead people to believe it.”
“Which is evidence that there are those besides Benton King who wish to believe it, and, of them all, doubtless Manager Riley, of Bancroft, is the most eager; for he pretends to have some sort of a claim, according to the rules of the Northern League, upon the services of Paul Hazelton. If I am the Hazelton in question, he means to take me away from Kingsbridge, even though he may fail in compelling me to pitch for the Bullies. That’s his game, Miss Harting. When he has pushed it to the limit, he’ll find that he’s barking up the wrong tree, and the laugh will be on him and the others who have fooled themselves in the same way.”
Although he smiled a little, his words were spoken with such sincere frankness and honesty that she was shamed by the thought that even the slightest shadow of doubt had clouded her confidence in him. A man with such steady eyes, set well apart; such a mouth, unmarred by the soiling touch of guile; such a voice, deep, strong, yet suppressed, like the softened notes of an organ—that man could not lie.
“I am beginning to understand,” she said hastily. “It is just like those Bancrofters; they aredetermined that Kingsbridge shall not get ahead of them at anything. They are terribly wrought up because we have beaten them at baseball, and they’ll do anything to weaken our team. I—I’m glad they can’t get you away from us. Do you think we have a good chance to win the pennant this year?”
“If the games are played on their merits, with no underhanded work, I see no reason why Kingsbridge should not stand as much chance to win as Bancroft. You did not come out to the Lakeport game.”
“How do you know?”
“I looked for you.”
“But—in all that crowd—”
“I am sure you were not there; if you had been, I should have seen you.”
“No,” she answered, glowing at the knowledge that he had taken so much trouble to seek for her in the crowd. “I have not seen a game since the first one you pitched. Father raises such objections that I have thought best to stay away, even though he has not positively forbidden me to attend. If I can get an escort, I shall do my best to persuade him to let me see the next game when Bancroft plays here. Every one in Kingsbridge seems to think it will be a great battle.”
“Bancroft comes Wednesday, this week.”
“And you will pitch?”
“I don’t know; I presume so.”
“Oh, I’ll see it unless father positively refuses to let me go. Imustsee that game! I hope you pitch as well as you did before.”
“I hope so myself,” he laughed, “although for a time in the first inning I was almost led to believe I couldn’t pitch at all.”
“I’ll never forget it,” she breathed. “It was dreadful. The crowd was howling at you so, and you seemed utterly unable to get the ball over. I confess that I, too, thought you were useless as a pitcher. But when you redeemed yourself, and the crowd became satisfied that you could hold Bancroft, how quickly the howling turned to cheers! I can hear them now, crying: ‘Oh, you Lefty!’ It was splendid!”
Janet’s cheeks were bright, and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm reawakened by those exciting moments. Watching the movements of her lips, revealing flitting glimpses of perfect teeth; listening to her voice, as sweet as that of Bassanio’s beloved maid; entranced by the violet light of her eyes, all aglow with earnestness; he was stirred as never before in all his life.
Then and there came the knowledge that shewas the one girl for him. He longed to tell her, but words fit to do him such service seemed impossible to find; he doubted if they were contained in any language.
The first words were trembling on his lips when suddenly one of the romping children uttered a cry of pain, followed immediately by other cries, bringing Janet to her feet in alarm.
“What is it?” she called.
“It’s Jimmy,” answered Tommy Murphy, appearing from behind some bushes. “He’s cut his foot on somep’n. It’s bleedin’ fierce.”
Locke was at Janet’s side when she reached Jimmy, who was sitting on the ground, surrounded by the other little boys, and holding one of his bare feet. It had been gashed by a broken bottle hidden by fallen leaves and vines.
Without hesitation Janet dropped to her knees to do what she could, but Tom was equally swift and unfaltering in action. Whipping forth a spotless handkerchief, he knelt to bind up the injury.
“It will be best to take him to a doctor right away,” he said, “for there may be pieces of glass in the cut. Let me attend to this, Miss Harting. I can do it alone; I won’t need any help,” he declared, as he observed that all the color had departed from her cheeks, leaving them very pale.
“Let me help,” she urged steadily.
“Yuh—yuh don’t think I—I’ll bl-e-bleed ter death, do ye?” sobbed Jimmy.
“Hardly as bad as that, old chap,” smiled Locke, as he wound the handkerchief round the foot and drew it tight. “There’s no danger at all. We’ll have you fixed up all right. It doesn’t hurt much, does it?”
“Aw, I don’t care a rap fer ther hurtin’, but it bled so like thunder that it got my goat,” was the reply.
Janet, watching, saw Tom bring two corners of the folded handkerchief together to tie them. On one of those corners her eyes beheld some initials, plainly and distinctly worked; so plain and distinct were they that there could be no possible mistake as to what they were. She stared at them, wondering, for the letters were “P. H.”
“There you are, old man,” said Locke cheerfully, when he had knotted the ends of the handkerchief securely. “Never mind if the blood does come through; the doctor will stop that pretty quick. Now, come on, and I’ll take you to him pickapack.”
He lifted the little fellow lightly, and swung him to his back. Janet rose, and followed, the children, chattering, trailing after.
“P. H.,” she whispered to herself. “Those letters surely do not stand for Tom Locke.”
But there was another name which they served—a name which Benton King had declared rightfully belonged to the man who called himself Tom Locke.