Returning the card to his pocket, the man pretended to busy himself again over one of the directories, keeping his back partly turned toward the pitcher. Soon he heard the switchboard girl repeat Lefty’s number, and direct him to booth No. 1.
The man closed his book and turned round slowly. The southpaw was disappearing into a booth at the end of one of the rows, and, in closing the door behind him, he unintentionally left it slightly open. The watching man moved quietly forward until he was close to this booth, through the glass of which he could see that Lefty’s back was partly turned toward him. There he paused, taking some letters and papers from his pocket and running them over as if searching for something. While appearing to be absorbed in his own affairs, he could hear every word that the pitcher spoke into the receiver.
Getting the editorial rooms of the Blade, Locke asked for Stillman. After a slight delay, he was informed that the reporter was not there. No one could say just when he would be in.
“This is important,” stated Lefty; “a matter in which he is greatly interested. I must talk with him as soon as possible. Will you ask him, as soon as he comes in, to call Philip Hazelton at the Great Eastern? Yes, Hazelton; that’s right. Why, yes, I’m Lefty Locke. All right; don’t fail to tell him immediately he arrives.”
The man outside slipped the letters and papers into his pocket, and turned away after the manner of a person who has suddenly decided upon something. He had not walked ten steps, however, before he turned back. The southpaw was paying for the call. The man watched him now without further effort to avoid notice, and when the pitcher turned from the switchboard he stepped forward deliberately to meet him.
“Hello!” said the man in a voice distinctly husky and unpleasant. “How are you, Locke?”
Lefty stopped short and stared. It was Garrity, coarse, complacent, patronizing. The owner of the Rockets grinned, showing the numerous gold fillings in his teeth. His features were large, and his jaw was square and brutal. His clothes were those of a common race-track follower.
“Quite well, thank you,” answered Lefty coldly, thinking of the pleasure it would be to tell Garrity his private opinion of him.
“Seems to me you look worried. I don’t wonder, though, considering the job they’ve handed you. Some job piecing together the tattered remnants, hey? It’s going to make you a busy little manager.”
“I’m busy now,” said the southpaw, moving as if to pass on; but Garrity detained him. “You’ve got some positions to fill. The Feds got at you hard. Shame to see a team like the Stockings shot to pieces. You’ve got three or four bad holes, and I’d like to help you.”