“Nuthin’ doin’,” he said. “This ride is on me.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Joe in surprise.
“Jest what I said,” returned the chauffeur. “The fellow that won the championship for the New Yorks can’t pay me any money. It’s enough for me to have Baseball Joe ride in my cab. I can crow over the other fellows that wasn’t so lucky.”
“Nonsense,” laughed Joe, as he took out a bankbill and tried to thrust it on him.
“No use, boss,” the man persisted. “Your money’s counterfeit with me.”
He started his car with a rush and a backward wave of his hand, and Joe, warned by a cheer or two that came from people near by who had recognized him, was forced to retreat into the hotel.
He did not send up a card, as he was a frequent caller and felt sure of his welcome. Besides, he was too impatient for any formalities. He wanted to be in the presence of Mabel, and even the elevator seemed slow, though it shot him with amazing speed to the fifth floor on which the Varley suite was located.
His heart was beating fast as he knocked at the parlor door, and it beat still faster when a familiar voice bade him enter.
He burst in with a rush that suddenly stopped short when he saw that he was not the only visitor. A young man had stepped back quickly from Mabel’s side and it was evident that he had just withdrawn his hand from hers.