Chapter XXVI: Metamorphosis

For a minute or two Savage stood staring across the lobby after Locke and the manager. Then, as they disappeared into the dining room, he drew a long breath and raised one hand to his forehead with a puzzled, undecided gesture.

“_Jekyll and Hyde!_” he muttered in an odd voice as he turned back to the writing room. Beside the spotted, baize-covered table he paused again, looking down with thoughtful, unseeing eyes at the unfinished letter lying there.

“So that’s it,” he murmured under his breath. “I wonder?”

He frowned, and began tapping lightly on the table with one finger. His lids drooped, and his whole face was eloquent of troubled indecision. It was several minutes before he roused himself with a determined shake of the shoulders, and sat down.

“What a splendid friend that chap would make!” he said in a low tone, his somber face brightening momentarily. “He’d stick to a fellow through thick and thin, once he believed in him. I wish―― Oh, thunder! What’s the odds, anyhow!”

He drew the letter to him, and picked up a pen. Five minutes later he had sealed the envelope and dropped it into a side pocket; and when he presently entered the dining room no one could have guessed from his expression that he had so lately been stirred to the very depths of his being.

As he hesitated just inside the doorway, glancing from right to left, Locke, who had been watching for his appearance, hailed him from a near-by table.

“Better sit down here, Savage,” he said pleasantly. “There’s an extra place or two.”

He had maneuvered so that one of those vacant chairs should be next his own, for his theories as to the busher’s eccentricities had made him anxious to see as much as possible of the fellow, and study him at close range. Several of the other players looked surprised at this unwonted cordiality toward a man few of them had any use for. Larry Dalton’s eyebrows went up comically as he glanced inquiringly toward his friend, but he made no audible comment. He rather suspected some elaborate joke, but, like the others, was content to wait until he got his bearings before joining in.

Savage showed neither hesitation nor embarrassment. He took possession of the chair beside the southpaw as if it were the most natural thing in the world, gave his order to the waiter, and settled back, his smiling eyes, so different in expression from the eyes his comrades had known, ranging composedly from one to another of the surprised faces.

Before the meal was over Lefty had observed enough to strengthen his belief in the accuracy of that odd supposition concerning dual personality. The Westerner’s two natures were opposite as the poles. The snappy, grouchy, quarrelsome Savage who had become so unpopular with his companions and such a thorn in the manager’s side, had nothing in common with the pleasant, well-mannered, somewhat retiring chap sitting at Locke’s right. And Lefty was not the only one to notice the change. He could read in the faces of the others, and in the way they cast furtive glances at the busher, that they were equally astonished, and quite unable to know what to make of it all.

“What’s the game, old man?” Dalton whispered, as they walked out into the lobby afterward. “What in thunder have you done to him? You must have done something. The mucker’s almost human!”

Lefty shook his head. “You’ve got me,” he returned briefly. “I haven’t done a thing. He’s been this way ever since he pulled Al and me out of the river this morning. Maybe he’s decided to turn over a new leaf.”

“Huh!” grunted the infielder skeptically. “It’s more likely he’s putting up a game.”

Locke made no comment on the suggestion. His eyes were fixed upon Savage, who stood a short distance away, talking with two or three players. His mind was busy with a new detail of the extremely interesting problem the man presented.

Was the fellow aware in his present state of what had been said and done by his other self? During dinner he had not talked a great deal, preferring apparently the rôle of listener. He had answered questions freely, however, and now and then volunteered a comment. To the ordinary observer there had been nothing at all out of the way in his manner, or in those brief remarks, but Lefty recalled now a certain keen attentiveness to what was being said which reminded him oddly of a deaf man feeling his way. There had also been one or two little inconsistencies of speech that seemed significant.

Still watching and thinking, Locke presently saw Pete Zacher stroll up and join the group. A moment or two later the recruit’s harsh voice was raised in a note of surprise:

“Say, Nels, what in time have you done with your ring?”

Savage stared at him for a flash, then glanced swiftly down at his left hand.

“That’s so,” he said. “Much obliged for reminding me. Reckon I must have left it in my room when I was washing up.”

“In your room?” repeated Zacher. “I thought you said you never took it off.”

The Westerner hesitated for a second, then shrugged his shoulders lightly. “Did I say that?” he queried carelessly. “You mustn’t take everything so literally. Very likely I didn’t want to take it off at that particular time.”

Zacher’s lips curled. “I don’t know what you meant; I only know what you said.” He laughed disagreeably. “I s’pose there’s hockshops, even in this little one-horse burg, eh?”

The recruit’s expression scarcely changed, but to Lefty’s observing eyes his smile had taken on a chilling quality.

“Very likely,” he retorted quietly, turning on his heel. “You ought to know, if any one does. Going out to the park, Lefty?”

The southpaw nodded, and together they moved toward the door. In a breath Savage had committed two palpable inconsistencies. He had flatly contradicted a former utterance about the ring, while his manner showed undisguised dislike for a man with whom he had previously been on better terms than with any one in the squad. It was scarcely possible that he would have done this with a full consciousness of that other personality.

Lefty had read of one or two such instances, but to come face to face with such a condition was vastly different. It seemed incredible――uncanny. He tried to picture the mental turmoil of a man awakening suddenly to an existence which had been snipped off as abruptly, perhaps, months before. The fellow must, by this time, have some notion of the state of affairs. He must realize that something almost like another soul inhabited his body at intervals. But to have absolutely no knowledge of what that other soul had been making his body do or say would be intolerable.

The busher’s performance on the field that afternoon won a grudging nod or two of approval from doubting Jack Kennedy. There was nothing especially brilliant about his form, but Savage unquestionably showed an anxiety to do his best which had hitherto been conspicuously lacking.

“He might make a pitcher if he kept that up,” admitted the manager to Lefty. “Of course he won’t, though. About the time I begin thinking I can use him, he’ll get hitting it up again, or have one o’ them fits you tell about.”

Though Locke waved away the possibility with some assurance, he was secretly troubled by that very fear. With no data to guide him, he had not the least notion of how often these lapses occurred or what brought them about. The previous period had lasted over two weeks, at least; but, for all he knew, the present one might terminate at any moment. He cudgeled his brains to think of anything he could do to ward off such a catastrophe, but there seemed to be nothing save an effort to keep the busher’s mind occupied and prevent him from brooding over his condition.

With this idea in mind, Lefty deliberately started in to make things as agreeable as he could for Savage, and before very long he discovered the task to be far from irksome. As in that brief railroad trip they had taken together in the North, he found the Westerner very winning and likable; and Savage left no doubt of that liking being returned. The end of the second day found them good friends indeed, and, curiously enough, none of Lefty’s older cronies――Stillman, Dalton, Ogan, and the rest――showed any signs of disapproval at the intimacy.

Said Laughing Larry: “When a guy who’s been as rotten as he has can turn himself into a first-rate, decent chap, it would be a crime not to encourage him.”

Truly the metamorphosis had been complete. But would it last? That was the question which troubled the southpaw, and was scarcely ever absent from his mind. He had a feeling that the hateful transformation might come at any moment, and without the slightest warning. He could never be really sure in parting from Savage, even for an hour, that their next meeting would not find the busher’s evil self again in control.