Locke and his companions lifted their caps as they drew near, and Bent, unsmiling, lifted his hat. In a cold voice, he called:
“O, Locke, I say, would you mind stopping a moment?”
A flicker of surprise passed over Lefty’s face. He stopped, and his companions went on.
“How do you do, Mr. Locke?” said Janet, in a voice which she tried hard to keep steady.
“I didn’t see you at the game Tuesday, Miss Harting,” said the pitcher.
“I wasn’t there. I should have enjoyed it, but father is opposed to the game, and objects to my attending.”
“You will be missed.”
King’s teeth clicked, and the frigid expression on his face was blotted by a hot frown. He measured Locke with his eyes, getting for the first time the impression that the man was far better set up than he had supposed, and not quite as slender. Also, he was struck by the conviction that Locke was older than he had fancied; although his face looked somewhat boyish—particularly so at a distance, upon the baseball field—upon closer inspection it appeared more manly and seemed to possess a certain sort of dignity. Surely there was nothing common or ordinary about the fellow.
“Pardon me, Locke,” said Bent, “but—do you know?—you’ve puzzled me a bit!”
“Really? In what manner?”