CHAPTER XVI
McCarthy Makes a Call
It was a little past seven o'clock, when McCarthy, arrayed in what Swanson referred to as his "joy rags," which had been rescued from impound in an express office after his first renewal of prosperity, came out of the hotel. He was undecided, wavering as to whether or not it was wise for him to keep the appointment to call on Helen Baldwin.
They had met during his college career, and, after a courtship that was a whirlwind of impetuosity on his side, she had agreed to marry him. He recalled now, with rather bitter recollections of his own blindness, her seemingly careless curiosity regarding the extent of the Lawrence wealth and his own expectations. He had told her how, when his father had died, Jim Lawrence had taken him to rear as his own child and heir.
The boy had grown older and broadened with his short experience in the world outside the protecting circle that had been round him in preparatory school and in college, and he determined to write that night to his guardian the letter he had so long delayed and to apologize and admit that he had been headstrong and foolish.
During the long ride uptown to the city residence of the Baldwins he had time to think clearly. He knew that Barney Baldwin was wealthy, but he was unprepared for the magnificence of the garish house, set down amid wide lawns in the most exclusive part of the River Drive section.
Helen Baldwin entered the room in a few moments, and McCarthy gazed at her in admiring surprise.
She came forward with both hands outstretched, smiling, a strangely transformed girl from the cold, half-scornful one with whom he had parted only a short time before.
"I wanted to see you so much, Larry," she said. "I have been so blue and depressed since I—since we—since we last met. Why didn't you call?"
"I only reached the city last night," he replied as he took a seat beside her on a divan. "And—well, Helen, I hardly thought you would wish to see me."
"You foolish boy," she chided. "Don't you know yet that you must never take a girl at her word? Of course, I was annoyed to find you playing baseball with a professional team, but I didn't mean we never were to meet again."
"I thought your ultimatum settled all that," he answered, ill at ease. "It was rather a shock to find that you cared more for what I was than for what I am."
"You know, Larry, that you placed me in a painful position. It isn't as if I were a rich girl, able to share with the man I love. My father and mother are not rich, and Uncle Barney has supplied me with everything. He has spoiled me—and I would make a wretched wife for a poor man."
"I would not have proposed marriage," said McCarthy quietly, "unless I had thought I would be able to provide for you as well as your uncle could. When circumstances were changed I could not ask you to sacrifice yourself unless you were willing—unless you cared enough for me to adapt yourself to the circumstances."
"But, Larry, aren't you going to quit all this foolishness and go back? Haven't you been reconciled with Mr. Lawrence?" she asked in surprise.
"I expect to go back after the season is over and tell him how sorry I am that I caused him trouble."
"Please go, Larry. You'll go to please me, won't you?" she said appealingly.
"I cannot see why it would please you to have me quit now, when I'm most needed," he replied stiffly. "Surely you cannot know what you are asking."
"It is such a little thing I ask," she pouted, "I'm sure you would if you loved me."
The girl's eyes were filling. She had found him easy to handle by that appeal only a few short months before, but now, as he saw her, he was seized with a desire to laugh, as he realized that she was acting. The words of Swanson: "You'll find out more than we will," flashed into his mind, and he determined to meet acting with acting.
"Perhaps, Helen," he said softly, "if you could explain just why you want me to quit playing I could see my way to do it."
"That is being a sensible boy," she said, bathing her eyes with a bit of lace. "I don't like to see you making an exhibition of yourself before a crowd—for money." She shrugged her beautiful shoulders disdainfully.
"Is that all?" he asked quietly.
"All? Isn't it enough? And then there's Mr. Lawrence. I know he is worrying about you."
"Any other reasons?" he inquired.
"Then there's Uncle Barney"——
"What has Barney Baldwin to do with it?" His voice was sharp, and the girl hesitated under his steady scrutiny.
"You mustn't speak that way of my uncle," she said reprovingly. "I'm sure he's only interested in you because of me. He says it is imperative that you do not play any more with the Bears."
"Then Barney Baldwin ordered you to telephone for me to come here?" he asked harshly.
"He merely wanted me to persuade you to quit that ridiculous game and go back to Mr. Lawrence right away. He was only trying to save you."
For an instant he sat staring at the girl steadily. Then he said slowly:
"What a fool I've been."
"Oh, Larry, Larry!" she exclaimed, frightened by his manner. "What's the matter—is anything wrong?"
"Nothing wrong," he said, laughing mirthlessly. "Nothing wrong. You may tell your uncle, with my compliments, that I will continue to play with the Bears to the end of the season, and that, in spite of him and his dirty work we will win that pennant."
He arose and passed into the hall without a backward glance, ignoring the sobs of the girl, who buried her face in her handkerchief and wept gracefully, telling him between sobs that he was cruel. He took his hat from the servant and strode rapidly down the steps, his mind a turmoil of emotions.
How far did the plot to beat the Bears out of the pennant extend? How many were in it? Gradually he commenced to draw connected thoughts from the chaos of his brain. He realized that he was the storm center of a plot and that he was dealing with dangerous enemies.
The girl he had left so abruptly continued her stifled, stagey sobs until she heard the front door close. Then she sat up quickly, glanced at her features in a wall mirror, brushed back a lock of ruffled hair and rubbed her eyes lightly with her kerchief.
"How he has changed," she said to herself. "He is getting masterful, and three months ago one pout was enough. I could almost love him—even without old Jim Lawrence's money.
"At any rate," she said, looking at the handsome solitaire on her finger, "I can keep the ring. He never mentioned it. I must go tell Uncle Barney."
She ran lightly up the stairs to the den where Baldwin, smoking impatiently, was waiting for her.
"Well?" he inquired. "Did you land him?"
"Don't speak so vulgarly, Uncle Barney," the girl replied. "No, I did not. He has grown stubborn. He told me to tell you he intended to keep on playing to the end of the season, and that they would win—I've forgotten what he said they would win. Does it make much difference, just these few more games?"
"Does it make any difference?" he stormed. "Any difference—why, you fool, my whole political future may be ruined by that red-headed idiot. Get out of here. I'm going to telephone."
The girl, weeping in earnest now, hurried from the room as Barney Baldwin seized the telephone. A moment later he was saying:
"Hello, Ed. She fell down. He's stubborn and says he'll keep on playing. You'd better see your man and break that story in the newspaper. What? They got him? Where? Well, then, they've got the wrong man. McCarthy left my house not five minutes ago."