The pitcher shrugged his shoulders. “Once in a thousand times, perhaps,” he admitted. “It’s easy enough to invent a plausible reason, but I’ve noticed invariably that fellows do it because they’re ashamed, not of playing professional ball, but of having their friends know it. There’s an instance of this right here in the Hornet squad, a chap who graduated from Princeton the year after I did. He tried making his living as a lawyer, fell down hard, and then took up baseball. There isn’t an earthly reason why he shouldn’t use his own name, and yet he’s masquerading as Tom Locke.”
“Locke!” the girl gasped, staring in startled amazement. “You don’t mean to say that Phil Hazelton is here?”
Elgin’s jaw dropped most realistically, and he drew his breath sharply.
“You—know him?” he faltered.
“Of course I do. Why, he pitched all last summer for the Kingsbridge team. That’s where I’ve always lived, you know, until father’s health began to fail, and he was sent South by one of his wealthy parishioners. Philip Hazelton is a perfectly splendid fellow, and we’re great friends.”
Elgin’s face was the picture of confusion. “I—beg your pardon, Miss Harting,” he stammered. “I—I had no idea—you knew him, or I should never have mentioned his name.”
His expression was so contrite that the girl laughed merrily.
“Of course you didn’t,” she returned. “How should you when I haven’t even told you where I lived? I’ll forgive you, though, for otherwise I might never have known he was here. I’m sure, Mr. Elgin, if you knew Phil Hazelton as well as I do you’d admit that he was the thousandth man you spoke of a while ago who has a perfectly legitimate reason for not playing under his own name.”
“Very likely,” Elgin returned hastily. “I don’t doubt that you’re right.”
His voice was quite lacking in conviction, however. It was the tone of one agreeing out of mere politeness and because he was anxious to get away from a disagreeable subject.