For an instant Lefty hesitated. He could picture Stillman’s sarcastic reception of the story of the night before, and, knowing his friend’s impulsive, quick-tempered nature, he decided that it would be wisest to keep silent.
“He wasn’t overjoyed to see me,” he returned quietly.
The newspaper man arose. “I should say not!” he commented briefly. “Afraid you’ll let the other fellows know what sort of a rotter he is. If I were in your place, I’d be hanged if I wouldn’t.”
“Where would be the sense?” Lefty retorted. “It was all over and done with years ago. Of course, if he should try anything like the same game again, it would be different. You’re not thinking of—”
“It’s none of my business,” Stillman put in. “I don’t want to have anything to do with the mucker. Let’s go down to dinner.”
As luck would have it, stepping out of the elevator, they came face to face with Bert Elgin himself, talking earnestly with big Bill Hagin, a regular outfielder. For an instant the former stared blankly at Stillman. Then, with a great affectation of heartiness, he thrust out a hand.
“Well, I’ll be hanged if it isn’t Jack Stillman!” he exclaimed. “Glad to see you, old hoss!”
The reporter made no attempt to withdraw his hands from his pockets. He seemed, in fact, to thrust them deeper, and as his eyes met Elgin’s there was a look of withering, contemptuous scorn in them, which cut the ball player like a knife.
“How are you, Elgin?” he said curtly, and passed on toward the dining room with Lefty.
For a second Elgin stood staring after them, his face flushed and his eyes gleaming angrily.