Chapter X: A Perplexing Question

Savage made no effort to accept Lefty’s militant invitation. He did not stir or utter a word, but remained glaring at Locke with a concentration which gave the southpaw a queer and decidedly unpleasant sensation. He was vividly reminded of an occasion when he had stood before one of the glass dens in the Bronx Park reptile house, staring into the bright, evil eyes of a very active cobra which had reared itself belligerently.

The stillness became oddly prolonged. The busher’s eyes seemed to widen and grow larger. Locke was conscious of a peculiar sense of lethargy which changed swiftly to irritation at the fellow who seemed to be trying to stare him down. Suddenly he gave a determined shake of his head.

“Well,” he demanded curtly, “aren’t you going to start something?”

Savage drew back abruptly, an expression akin to disappointment flickering across his face.

“Say,” he rasped harshly, “what kind of a sucker do you think I am? I’d start to beat you up in this ball park, and how soon do you s’pose it would be before Kennedy landed on my neck?”

“Who’s going to put him wise?”

“If I once got going right you’d sure be a walking advertisement of what had happened. The whole crowd would be wise soon as they lamped you. Nix! You don’t get me in bad with the old man that way!”

Lefty’s lips curled. “Sure that’s the real reason?” he inquired sarcastically. “Looks to me as if you were crawling.”

The busher’s fists clenched and his face flushed darkly. For a second it seemed that he meant to fly at the throat of the man who had taunted him. Locke’s muscles stiffened; he braced himself instinctively to withstand the shock. But it never came.

“It won’t work,” growled Savage through his clenched teeth. “I’ll get you before I’m through, but not until I have a place with this crowd cinched. Another thing――there ain’t a bit of use in your coming around with that soft stuff, ’cause it don’t go. I don’t like a hair of your head, and trying that brand o’ bunk will only start ructions――see?”

The last word had scarcely left his lips when he turned and strode rapidly across the field toward the gate. Lefty, scarlet with rage at the insulting tone, took half a dozen swift steps after him before cooling second thought put on the brake. It was one thing to defend himself against assault, quite another deliberately to start a rough-house, in spite of even as great a provocation as this. It would be a poor way in which to repay Kennedy’s exceptional faith in him by fostering what the manager feared above almost any other calamity――dissension and hard feeling among members of his team.

“Just about one more crack like that, though, and you’ll get yours,” muttered the southpaw angrily, coming to a halt. “Jove, what a mucker! He ought to have the rudiments of decency beaten into his thick skull with a club. Soft stuff――bah!”

To a man whose friendship and acquaintance was sought with a frequency which is almost tiresome, the insinuation that he would deliberately try to win over such a creature as this by flattery was irritating to the limit. Nor was Lefty’s irritation at all assuaged by the realization that in a far-fetched sort of way he had placed himself open to the annoyance.

“But how could I know he’d be like this?” he growled as he moved slowly toward the gate, his face still crimson with indignation. “Jack said he was sober――and so he was. How could a fellow guess that any human being would change like that? Why, on the train he was as decent a sort――”

He broke off abruptly, with a start of surprise, the anger in his face giving place swiftly to puzzled thoughtfulness. How did he know that the fellow had ever really changed? Might not that pose of friendliness have been altogether a pretense?

Such a supposition would indicate amazing ability at acting on the part of this crude individual from the Western bushes, but it was far from impossible. Even more difficult to understand was the man’s motive in perpetuating such a deception. Why should his manner toward Lefty be so different in Belle View from that shown at Deering, or later here in Georgia? What had he gained, or hoped to gain, by a pose which must have been not only difficult but extremely onerous?

The question puzzled Locke all the way back to the hotel. He could think of no plausible answer save that Savage had desired to divert attention from some one or something in the quiet Jersey suburb. It was a bit far-fetched, perhaps, yet by assuming that guise of friendliness he had certainly so surprised and engrossed Lefty as to make him totally forgetful of the odd circumstance of the busher’s presence in the little country town.

If this supposition were correct, a lot of puzzling queries leaped into life like Hydra heads. None was more difficult that the last of all which popped suddenly into the southpaw’s mind, just as he came within sight of the hotel: Why had Savage refused to fight?

The obvious explanation would have been: Because he was afraid――because, like most loud-mouthed, blustering braggarts, he was a coward at heart. But Lefty had a strong impression that this was not the case. Much as he disliked the man, he had never had the least doubt of his courage. The ruffian had been ready enough twice before to resort to violence. What motive held him back now?