Chapter VIII: The Transformation

In the brief, tense pause which followed, Lefty’s dominating emotion was one of thankfulness that the station platform was deserted. The much delayed fight seemed bound to come off there and then, and Locke was not sorry. It was high time the fellow was shown a thing or two, and the Blue Stockings’ twirler was not in the least averse to playing the part of instructor. He did object, however, to playing that part before a crowd of witnesses.

Determined to let Savage make the first hostile move, the Big League player deliberately held himself in check, standing quietly, watching his antagonist, and wondering why he did not begin. There was not enough light for him to catch the play of expression on the busher’s face; consequently the shock of surprise which followed the fellow’s first words was doubly great.

“So soon?” Savage repeated at length, in a quiet, almost drawling voice. “Surely there’s been plenty of time for me to get here.”

Lefty stared at him dazedly for a second before he could find his voice. It was so totally different from what he had expected that for a moment he could not believe he had heard aright. Then the realization came suddenly that Savage was playing some game.

“Oh, plenty,” he answered calmly; “only the time was so short I scarcely thought you’d be coming East.”

Savage shrugged his shoulders, and put down the suitcase. “I don’t remember saying that I wasn’t,” he returned quietly. “Have a cigarette?”

He extended an open box, and Lefty, retaining his composure with no little difficulty, accepted one. He refused to let this blustering braggart outdo him in self-control. What the man’s game was he had not the remotest idea, but he was certain two could play at it, and he promptly proceeded to “stall along” until he could get the run of the cards.

“Thanks,” he murmured nonchalantly, and produced a match box from his ulster pocket. “Light?”

As the flame flickered up Savage bent slightly toward it, his face clearly outlined to the smallest detail. Lefty, staring intently at him, could not detect a sign of that ungovernable fury which had characterized the busher at their first meeting less than a week before. He seemed as calm and unruffled as if he had never worked himself into a violent temper at the man who had accepted his cigarette and who was now holding a lighted match for him.

The whole thing was such an anti-climax that Lefty could have laughed aloud had he not been so bewildered. As it was, he decided to let Savage do the talking, at least until he could determine how things really stood. With that idea in mind, he took his time, aware from the sound of the rapidly approaching train that a fresh diversion was coming to his assistance.

“Mind the smoker?” inquired Savage as the engine thundered past them. “We may as well sit together, then. It’ll make the time pass quicker.”

Locke acquiesced briefly, and they climbed aboard, picking out a seat. They were no sooner settled than Savage made some whimsical comments on two queer-looking characters sitting in front of them, and the Big League twirler, to his amazement, found himself chuckling appreciatively at his companion’s dry humor.

It seemed incredible, yet he was actually finding the fellow likable. Tossing away the end of his cigarette, he pulled out a couple of cigars, and passed one over. Had any one predicted the action half an hour before, Lefty would have pronounced that person insane.

“From the way we parted,” he said with sudden impulsiveness, “I’d hardly have said we’d be chumming it this way to-night.”

Savage, busily cutting the end of his cigar, did not look up.

“Yes?” he murmured. “How so?”

Lefty stared. He had smelled liquor on the busher the afternoon they first met, but the man could scarcely have been so under the influence as to have no recollection of their altercation.

“You surely haven’t forgotten that you wanted to lick the pants off me?” he asked.

The smile vanished from the Westerner’s lips, and a flush swept into his face. “I’m sorry you remember it so vividly, Locke,” he said, in a low, rather constrained tone. Lefty wondered whither had vanished all his slang and coarseness. “I must have been more of a beast than I thought.” He hesitated, his slim fingers nervously rolling the cigar between them. “I was feeling pretty rotten that day. I had more booze in me than was healthy. And―― Well, you understand, old man, how a fellow sometimes does things he’s ashamed of.”

He raised his head suddenly, and looked straight at Lefty with steady, level eyes which seemed to hold a hint of appeal in them. For a second Locke could have sworn that they were not the eyes of Savage at all, they were so totally different from the lowering, evil-looking orbs he remembered. Then he realized that it was simply the absence of that baleful, uncanny glare which had impressed him so disagreeably. They were human now――human and winning, and decidedly attractive.

Suddenly Locke found himself answering the unspoken appeal eagerly.

“Forget it!” he said forcibly. “You don’t suppose I took it as seriously as that, do you? I was giving you a little josh, that’s all. Let’s get on to something else. How’d you make out with Jack?”

“He’s going to give me a show,” Savage answered briefly. “Great chap, Kennedy.”

“You bet your life he is!”

It was a subject on which Lefty could hold forth indefinitely, and when the train pulled into Jersey City he found that he had been doing most of the talking for twenty minutes or so. The announcement from Savage that he was going over to Brooklyn resulted in an unexpectedly hurried parting, and Locke had settled down in the uptown tunnel train before he realized that there were a number of things he had neglected to find out from the busher――among them the explanation of his curious actions in the Markham house.

“Doesn’t make any difference, I reckon,” he decided at length. “I’ll see him again in less than a week. By George, what a transformation!” He shook his head slowly. “It’s amazing. He’s human now, and not a bad sort at all. I s’pose it must be drink that does it. Jove! If I had a devil like that inside me, which liquor unchained, it would be me for the sprinkler, and no dropping off either.”