Full-Back Foster

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“Some game on? What makes you think that?” asked Chas.

“Well, I’ve got eyes and ears,” answered the other drily. “I’m not asking questions, though. So long. I’ll let you know how it comes out.”

“Don’t forget. If I’m out leave word with Brown. Just say ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ I’ll understand. Gosh, I hope Andy fetches him, though!”

Myron reached New York at a few minutes after ten on Saturday night. He had some supper on the way, crushed into a corner of a crowded dining-car, but he wasn’t hungry and ate little. On arrival, quick work in a taxi-cab got him across town in time for a train to Philadelphia that landed him there just before midnight. He had a married cousin living in that city, but he preferred to go to the quiet little hotel at which his mother stayed when on shopping visits. He left an order to be called at half-past six, luxuriated in a bath and crawled wearily to bed. But sleep was still a long way from him, and until after two he lay there wide-eyed and thought and thought, and twisted and turned.

There may be more dismal places in the world than Philadelphia at six-thirty on a rainy morning. If so, Myron had fortunately escaped them. He had left himself barely enough time to dress and reach the station for the seven-twelve express, and when, aroused by the blatant buz-z-zz of the telephone, he staggered to the window and looked out, he felt that he never could do it. That drab, empty stretch of wet street was the last blow to waning courage. Had he rested well and felt normally fresh he would have charged at his clothes, leaped into a cab and made it nicely, but he was in no condition of mind or body for such hustling methods. Besides, there were later trains, and he was in no hurry to face his folks, and the tumbled bed looked awfully good to him. Three minutes later he was asleep again.

Meanwhile Andrew Merriman was slowly pacing the platform beside the seven-twelve train. He had been there ever since the train had rolled sleepily into the long, gloomy shed. Keeping tabs on the passengers was no difficult task, for they were few in number and moved with dragging feet. Andrew had arrived in Philadelphia at half-past five, after an interminable ride during which he had huddled himself into a seat in a day-coach and slumbered fitfully between stops. It had been a glorious relief to leave that leisurely train and stretch his legs again. He had had breakfast at a nearby lunch-room, and now, all things considered, was feeling very fit. A glance at his watch showed the time to be two minutes to seven. In fourteen minutes from now he would know his fate. He had already arranged his plans in the event that Myron didn’t show up for that train, and he would have three hours in which to carry them out. A portly man with two suit-cases waddled down the long platform and puffed himself up the steps of a car. Even allowing for a disguise, thought Andrew whimsically, that was not Myron. Nor was the next passenger, a fussy little man with two small boys strung out behind him who came so fast that Andrew half expected to see him “snap the whip” any moment and send the tiniest boy hurtling through space. But he didn’t. He herded the children into a car and smiled triumphantly at Andrew. Evidently, he considered that arriving with only five minutes to spare was a reckless proceeding. There were the usual last-moment arrivals and then the train reluctantly pulled out, leaving Andrew alone on the platform.

Two blocks away was a hotel, and thither he made his way. Capturing a telephone directory, he found a chair by a window and turned to the list of hotels. There was an appalling lot of them and nothing to indicate which were of the sort likely to be patronised by Myron. But he had three hours before him and plenty of money, and was not discouraged. He took a piece of paper from a pocket, unscrewed his pen and set to work. Ten minutes later he was ready. The lobby was practically deserted and he had the telephone booths to himself. When he had exhausted all the nickels he had he crossed to the news-stand and had a dollar bill changed. Then he went on with his campaign. It was slow work, for many of the hotels were extremely deliberate in answering. The voices that came back to him sounded sleepy, and some sounded cross as well.

“Is Myron Foster stopping there?” Andrew would ask.

“Who? Fosdick? How do you spell it? Oh! What are the initials? Hold the line, please.” Then, after a wait: “No such party registered.”

At any rate, that is the way it went for nearly twenty minutes. Then luck turned.