CHAPTER XXXVIITHE BELL BOY
On Wednesday Bancroft was to play again in Kingsbridge, and Thursday was to be the “middle of the week lay-off” for both the Bullies and the Kinks.
Tuesday’s early mail brought Henry Cope a letter bearing the Bancroft postmark, and he opened it somewhat nervously. As he apprehended, it contained a communication from Anson Graham, president of the Northern League, giving notice that there would be held at the office of Rufus Kilgore, in Bancroft, on Thursday evening, at eight o’clock, a meeting of the league directors to consider the protest of Manager Riley relative to Paul Hazelton, “playing with Kingsbridge under the assumed name of Tom Locke.”
“By gum!” growled the grocer disgustedly. “They actually do mean business. We’re up ag’inst it. The boy better know ’bout this right away.”
He found Locke making ready to start for Fryeburg, where the team was to play that afternoon.The young man seemed strangely depressed, and his face wore a deep frown as he read the notice, which Cope had handed him. The grocer anxiously regarded the expression on the pitcher’s face.
“Well?” he asked, as Tom returned the notice.
“It is fortunate,” said Locke grimly, “that I fancied this meeting might be called on short notice, and made preparations for it.”
“Hey? You’ve made preparations?”
“Yes.”
“Whut sort o’ preparations?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Cope; I shall be ready for them, I think.”
“Then you’re dead sartin old Riley ain’t got no holt on ye?”
“How many times,” asked the young pitcher impatiently, “must I tell you so, Mr. Cope?”
“You know it’s got round somehow that you’ve denied p’int-blank that you’re Hazelton, and some folks—they’s alwus that kind in ev’ry town—are sayin’ they reckon you lied,” stammered the grocer. “You ain’t never denied that your name’s Hazelton, have ye?”
Tom Locke frowned, but made no answer to the question.
“As fur’s I’m concerned,” said Cope, “whenthey’ve tried to corner me, I’ve dodged or refused to answer. It’s too bad, boy; I’m mighty sorry it’s all goin’ to come out who ye be, but ’twarn’t my fault. I’ve kep’ my part of our agreement.”
“I haven’t any doubt of that. It’s simply the result of unfortunate circumstances and the determination of somebody to do me a bad turn. Mr. Cope, I’m not a trouble breeder, but, as you have used me square and I am genuinely interested in the team, I’m going to give you a tip to keep an eye on your manager. Nor does this come wholly, or even mainly, from the fact that I do not like him personally; I have reasons to believe that he is not on the level.”
“Hum!” grunted the grocer; “we hired him on good recommendation, but I don’t mind tellin’ you privately that I’ve got a feelin’ myself that he ain’t to be trusted too fur. He’s fer puttin’ you on the bench until arter this fuss over you is settled, an’ that don’t sound good t’ me. I want you to pitch agin’ Bancroft ag’in to-morrer.”
“And I want to pitch against them,” said Tom warmly; “but you’ll find that Hutchinson will object.”
“As long as you insist that they can’t count out the games that you win, I’m goin’ to set on the bench myself an’ see that you pitch to-morrer.”
“Good! I hope I’m in my best form, for I hear that Riley has had his men batting industriously in practice against a left-handed pitcher. Being left-handed helped me against his left-handed hitters at first before I had them sized up; but I’ve made a study of them for weak spots, and, though they are called sluggers, he has no Wagners or Lajoies—men who can bump any kind of a ball that comes within reach of their bats. They have their failings, every one of them, and, with good control and good support, I should be able to take another fall out of them.”
The door of the room had been left slightly ajar by Cope. Outside that door a hesitating bell boy stood listening to the talk of the two men. Hearing some one turn the knob of a door farther along the corridor, the boy hastily lifted his hand and knocked. At Locke’s call, he pushed the door open, and entered.
“Hello, Sam,” said the pitcher. “On the bed there—that suit needs pressing; take it to the tailor, will you, and tell him I want it back to-night? Here!”
He extended a silver half dollar, but the boy, who had gathered up the suit of dark-blue serge from the bed, drew back, looking confused.
“What’s the matter, Sam?” asked Locke, a bitimpatiently. “You’ve been doing some little favors for me of late.”
“I’d rather not take it, sir,” said the boy, his lids lowered and his gaze on the floor. “I hope ye don’t mind, sir.”
“Why, I don’t understand—”
“You—you was good to my little brother, Jimmy, when he cut his foot, and—and I’d rather not take anything, sir.”
Locke laughed for the first time that day, slipping the piece of silver into the genuinely unwilling hand of the boy.
“I reckon I owe Jimmy and his friends something, instead of the shoe being on the other foot,” he said enigmatically. “So Jimmy is your brother? I didn’t know that. You haven’t a high opinion of me as a pitcher, have you, Sam?”
“Oh, I was jest talkin’ to hear myself talk,” answered the boy quickly, his face turning crimson. “Did Jimmy tell you that?”
“I overheard it quite by accident. How’s his foot?”
“Oh, he ain’t caperin’ round on it much yit; but it’ll be all right pretty soon. I wisht you’d take this half back. Paw, he asked the doc, and the doc, he said there warn’t nothin’ t’ pay for tendin’ Jimmy’s foot, ’cause you had paid; an’ I’dlike ter do somethin’ to sorter make it square.”
“All right; keep the half now, and we’ll begin afresh. Now that I know I can do it, I’ll impose on you frightfully; I’ll keep you hopping for me in great shape. Say, hustle along and get that suit to the tailor, or he’ll not have it pressed for me to wear this evening; and I may want it.” He swung the door wide open, pushed the boy out, and closed it behind him.
“Fust time,” observed Henry Cope, “I ever knew a Bryant t’ try to refuse money. They’re a pretty shif’less, worthless bunch, that family.”