Chapter XXVIII: The Better Man Dominant

“And so you really think Janet and I will like each other?” inquired Miss Berkeley, her eyes sparkling mischievously above the bowl of flowers in the center of the candle-lit table.

The southpaw’s answering laugh was clear and mirthful, without even a suspicion of pique. With Janet sitting beside him there was no room in his mind for anything but pure, unadulterated delight.

“Oh, I’m the only original goat, all right,” he admitted cheerfully. “You two certainly played the game to the queen’s taste.” He glanced sidewise at Janet. “I’ve never even heard you mention Miss Berkeley’s name, to say nothing about being friends.”

The girl dimpled charmingly. “I didn’t. I only met her the last time I was staying in New York. We got on famously, though, and when she asked me to visit her we both thought it would be great fun to surprise you.”

“You sure did it!” Lefty chuckled. “You’d make a clever actress, Miss Berkeley. I did wonder a bit why, with one pitcher already attached, you’d want another butting in.”

“In other words, you thought me a dreadful flirt,” said the girl. “Well, now it’s all over, I warn you to make the best use of your time. Janet and I are here for only three days.”

Locke’s face fell. “Three days! Why, I thought you’d surely be here until we break up.”

“There’s no reason in the world why you shouldn’t, Celia,” put in Mrs. Randolph from her end of the table. “You know I should love to have you and Miss Harting stay as long as you please.”

Miss Berkeley shook her shapely head. “I’m sure you would, Aunt Julia, but it’s quite impossible. I’ve simply got to get back to look after dad and the boys. It was all I could do to persuade them to let me off for this one week. Of course,” she added, with a glance at the man opposite her, “it isn’t as if we were going a thousand miles from here. Savannah’s not more than eighty, is it? I know we make it in about four hours.”

“Hum!” murmured Lefty. “I suppose a fellow might get off for a Sunday if we worked Jack right.” He looked at Savage. “Reckon we’ll have to make the most of these three days, old man, but they’re going to seem awfully short.”

It was long after ten when the two men departed, but both commented on the brevity of their stay. In the morning, too, it required something of an effort for Lefty to concentrate his mind on the work of training. But he was not the sort to waste time in vain regrets.

Savage worked hard, and made such a good showing that about the middle of the morning Kennedy took him in hand and began coaching him personally. Lefty had noticed the manager hovering about the Westerner, watching him in a surreptitious sort of way, and he was not surprised when old Jack suddenly abandoned his skeptical attitude.

For the remainder of the morning and all afternoon the lanky baseball veteran kept at it, hammer and tongs, criticizing almost everything Savage did, and only varying the monotony by an occasional rare grunt of approval. It seemed as if he were doing his best to discourage the man or drive him to an outburst of anger, and Locke watched his friend with some anxiety as to the outcome. Knowing the old manager better, probably, than any one else in the squad, he realized that this seeming onslaught was in the nature of a compliment. Kennedy never wasted time on the hopelessly incompetent. If a recruit showed little or no promise he mentally checked him off as deadwood, and got rid of him at the earliest possible moment. He would never have kept Savage as long as this but for the necessity of having some one to relieve his old twirlers in pitching to the other players, and latterly on account of Lefty’s warm personal interest in the man. It was evident now that he had altered his opinion, and if the Westerner could only realize this and continue his good work under the grilling fire of criticism, he stood a chance to make good.

His performance surpassed even Locke’s hopes. Not once did he lose his head or his temper, though several times it seemed as if the latter was badly strained. Without comment he followed Kennedy’s directions, pitching the same ball over and over again until he had succeeded in pleasing his critic. There was no trace of sullenness or boredom in his manner. He seemed to be giving the best that was in him, honestly striving to improve his form. He made no objection when the spitball was suggested, and his ability at that erratic sort of delivery was so marked as to surprise the manager into a burst of approval.

“You get a good break on that spitter,” he said. “That’s the sort of stuff I’ve been trying to get out of you for two weeks.”

To Locke, on their way back from the park, he was even more enthusiastic:

“The boy’s got the makings of a twirler in him. You saw his spitball? Reminded you of Ed Walsh, didn’t it? He’ll improve before we start North, and if he only don’t go an’ slump――”

“I don’t know why he should,” Lefty said reassuringly. “He’s got every possible inducement for keeping up the pace.”

He had a feeling that it was not a matter of volition with Savage. But, knowing Kennedy’s skepticism regarding the matter of dual personality, he refrained from voicing it.

“Well, I hope he does,” old Jack said briefly. “Young Temple’s doing fair, but that’s about all.” He chewed on his cigar for a moment, then went on meditatively: “I’ve half a notion to put Savage in the box when we play that Atlanta team next week. They’re a tough bunch, from what I hear, and if he could make a showing against ’em, I’d begin to think I’d found a pitcher.”