CHAPTER VIII

AT THE THEATER

When the quartet piled into a taxi about half past six, and started for an exclusive downtown restaurant, their appearance would have been a revelation to those who picture a professional ball player as a pugnacious, rough-mannered individual who fits in well enough on the diamond but is quite out of his element when he attempts anything in the social line.

It would have been difficult, in fact, to find four finer-looking specimens of manhood anywhere. Their faces glowing with perfect health and physical well-being, they showed not the slightest signs of being awkward or ill at ease in their evening togs. Add to this the fact that two of them, Lefty Locke and Billy Orth, were men of unusual good looks, and it is small wonder that their arrival at the restaurant caused a little stir of interest among the diners already present.

They were swiftly recognized, of course, and the stir increased to a bustle; for even society doesn’t often have a chance of studying two pitchers, the catcher, and second baseman of a national organization at close range. The four athletes, however, paid scant attention to the interest they were exciting. They were too well accustomed to that sort of thing to let it interfere with their enjoyment. They were out for a good time, and meant to have it, regardless of rubbernecks.

There was nothing in the least boisterous in their behavior. They laughed and talked and joshed one another, to be sure, but their manner was not a whit different from that of a dozen other parties about them. They consumed the well-ordered dinner――conspicuous by the absence of anything to drink――leisurely. Then, it being close on to eight, they paid the sizable check, tipped the waiters, and departed, having shown from the beginning a breeding and a refreshing lack of self-consciousness which opened the eyes of not a few observers.

The theater being only a few blocks away, they walked, arriving in the lobby just as the overture was beginning. There was the usual crowd jostling to get in. As the four friends stood waiting for an usher to take their checks, Lefty heard his name called in a slightly familiar voice.

For a second he stared around in a puzzled way, failing to locate the owner of that voice in the crowd. Dalton’s elbow dug into his ribs, and Dalton’s voice whispered in his ear:

“The Big Chief! Get busy, kid.”

Then it was that Lefty discovered Charles Collier, the distinguished-looking owner of the Blue Stockings, standing near the wall at a little distance; and beside him, more charming than ever in her evening gown of shimmering white, was his daughter, Virginia.

“You’re just the man I’m looking for,” Collier said, as Lefty stepped swiftly over and bowed his greetings. “See here, boy, is it possible that you’re a son of the Reverend Paul Hazelton, who went through Dartmouth and the New York Theological Seminary, and has a parish somewhere out in Jersey?”

Lefty’s eyes brightened. “Quite possible,” he smiled. “He’s been in Summit for the last twelve years. Do you know him?”

“Know him?” echoed Collier emphatically. “I should say I did! Why, we were chums at college, and kept up our friendship for a number of years afterward. I must have been wool-gathering. I knew your name was Hazelton, but somehow the connection never occurred to me till my daughter suggested it at dinner to-night. I suppose it was because I couldn’t associate Paul’s son with baseball.”

“Yes; Dad has a perfect horror of the game. He had a friend who was killed while――”

“Yes, of course. Poor Brandon! It was in our junior year. Your father could never bear even to see a game after that. I must have a chat with you about him soon. Just now I’m――”

He paused abruptly, his eyes roving over the immaculate figure of the young man, and then veering swiftly to his daughter’s face.

“By Jove, Virginia!” he exclaimed. “I don’t see why Hazelton can’t help us out.”

Miss Collier’s color deepened a trifle and she made a quick, protesting gesture with her white-gloved hands. “How absurd, Dad! Mr. Hazelton is here with friends. I couldn’t think of asking such a thing.”

“Nonsense!” chuckled the older man. “I don’t believe he’ll mind shaking them for a little while.” He turned to Locke. “I’ve just had a message from a real-estate man,” he explained, “whom I expected to see in the morning. He’s got to take the midnight back to Boston, and it’s essential that I should talk to him before he goes. Virginia can’t very well stay here alone, but if you would take my place――”

“I should be delighted,” Lefty said swiftly, as the older man paused questioningly. “The fellows I’m with are just three men from the team.”

In reality he was very far from being overjoyed, but he was much too courteous and well-bred to allow any sign of this to appear in his face or manner. Having given up an evening with Janet to keep his previous engagement, he did not particularly fancy spending it with even so charming a person as Virginia Collier.

Under the circumstances, however, there was nothing to do but accept with the best possible grace the situation forced on him; and, though she was watching him closely, the girl saw nothing in his face but ready acquiescence and well-simulated pleasure.

Collier breathed a sigh of relief, handed over the seat coupons, and departed hastily, with the assurance that he would be back before the performance was ended. Still giving his clever imitation of one in the throes of unalloyed bliss, Lefty explained to his friends, and then escorted Miss Collier down the aisle, conscious as he passed the eighth row of the concentrated stare of three pair of observing eyes. He did not glance round, however, and he was settled in the third-row aisle seat when the curtain began to rise.

Few men can resist a thoroughly charming woman when she sets out deliberately to make herself agreeable. Lefty was not one of the few. Of course, he did not realize that Miss Collier’s manner with him was a bit different from what it might have been with any other man.

The girl was much too clever to let him see that. But there are ways _and_ ways, most of them too subtle for the clumsy masculine intellect to grasp, which are part of every woman’s mental equipment. The result of their application in the present instance was the swift transformation of Lefty’s pose of enjoyment into one of reality.

It must not be supposed for an instant that Virginia Collier’s manner showed a trace of vulgar coquetry; quite the contrary. Apparently there was no particle of sentimentality in her make-up. She talked mainly of baseball, tennis, motoring, and kindred subjects, in a way which showed that she was more than familiar with her ground; and the contrast between her daintily feminine appearance and her evident liking for almost every sort of sport was very taking――as, no doubt, the young woman fully appreciated.

By the end of the first intermission Lefty felt as if they were old friends. Before the third act had commenced he found himself discussing the baseball situation almost as if she had been “one of the fellows.” One did not have to do much explaining. Her grasp on conditions was surprising, her judgment almost flawless. Yet, underneath it all, and ever present as the oft-recurring theme of a symphony, was the lure of feminine personality, stronger, perhaps, for its very subtlety.

Lefty felt its pull, but did not realize the nature of the attraction. He told himself that he had never before met anyone quite like Virginia Collier. She was like a good pal, a chum to whom one could talk almost as one talked to another man. She was a good sport in the best sense of the word, and he was vaguely glad that the real-estate man from Boston had appeared when he did.

Just before the final curtain an usher appeared with a note which Lefty was able to read by the light from the stage. It was hastily scrawled from a near-by club, and in it Charles Collier――explaining that he was still in conference with his business man――requested that Locke escort his daughter home, and then send the car back for him.

“It really isn’t a bit necessary,” the girl protested, as she glanced at the paper. “If you’ll find the motor and put me in, I can manage the rest quite well.”

“Then why didn’t your father ask me to do just that?” Lefty asked.

“Because he’s foolishly silly about my going about at night alone, even in our own machine.” Miss Collier paused an instant, and then dimpled charmingly. “You mustn’t judge him by his behavior to-night. He’s usually annoyingly strict with me. I’m quite sure if you hadn’t happened to be the son of an old college chum I should have been taken home without seeing the play.”

The young pitcher laughed. “I’m awfully glad I happened to have the proper credentials, and I think we’d better follow out Mr. Collier’s wishes. Besides, if I take you home it will give us a chance to finish that discussion about Marquard’s work in the box this year.”

“Since you put it that way, I’ll give in,” the girl said, as she arose to let him place the opera cloak carefully about her shoulders.

Lefty slipped on his coat, secured hat and gloves, and stepped into the aisle. There was the usual crush of people to block the way, and as they moved slowly forward he half turned to make a laughing remark to his companion.

The jesting words were never spoken; the very smile froze on the young man’s lips as his eyes fell on the face of a girl in the sixth row over near the boxes.

It was Janet Harting, and there was something about her expression which held Lefty stupidly silent for a second or two. Then he bowed eagerly, and smiled. There was absolutely no response.

For an appreciable moment Miss Harting stared at him, her chin uptilted, her color a little high, perhaps, but her gaze as coldly impersonal as if he had been an utter stranger. She gazed at him, over him, _through_ him, without the quiver of an eyelash. Then she rose leisurely, deliberately turned her back, and began to help her older companion into a coat.