“I found your twist-paw out in the brush with nothing but a bum trolley car between him and a long walk,” said Bean jauntily.

“He’s got the prettiest red car that ever made you jump at a crossing,” added the Pitcher.

They sat on the bench together.

“He winds up like old Sycamore,” said Bean expertly of a young pitcher who was working nearby.

“He does for a fact,” testified one of the players.  “Did you know old Syc?”

“Chicago,” said Bean.  “Down and out; coming in from some tank-team and having to wear his uniform for underclothes all winter.”

They regarded him with respectful interest.

“Poor Syc could never learn to take water in it,” said one.

“He lived in a boarding-house two doors away from me,” said Bean.  “And when he’d taken about six or seven in at Frank’s Place, he’d start singing ‘My Darling Nellie Gray,’ only he’d have to cry at about the third verse; then he’d lick some man that was laughing at him.”

“That’s old Syc, all right.  You got him, pal!”

The talk went to other stars of the past.  Bean mostly listened, but when he spoke they heard one who knew whereof he spoke.  He was familiar with the public performance of every player of prominence for ten years.  He was at home, among equals, and easy in his mind.

An inconspicuous man who had gained admittance to the grounds, by alleging his need to inspect a sign that was to be “done over,” above the fence beyond the outfield, passed closely to Bean and detected the true situation with one sweep of his eagle eyes.

Fifteen minutes later this man was saying over a telephone to the largest director who sat in Breed’s office: 

“Nothing doing last night but riding around in a big red car that was waiting for him down in front.  This morning at eight he starts north and picks up a man just this side Fordham, from a trolley car that breaks down.  They turn around and go to the baseball park.  He’s setting there now, gassing with a lot of the players, telling funny stories and the like.  He looks as if he didn’t have a trouble on earth.  My taxi-cab bill is now, for last night and to-day, forty-six eighty-five.  Shall I keep on him?”

“No!” shouted the largest director.  “Let him go to—­let him alone and come in.”

“I forgot to say,” added the inconspicuous man, “that the party he picked up on the road and brought back here looks like he might be a ball player himself.”

“Come in,” repeated the largest director; “on a street-car!”

“Looks to me,” ventured the quiet director to the largest, “as if you didn’t bluff him quite to death last night.”

“Aut’mobile!” said Breede.  “Knew he had some one b’ind him.”

“Let’s get to business.  No good putting it off now,” said the quiet director.

“Seven hundred shares!  My God!  This is monstrous!” said the little eldest director, who had been making noises like a heavy locomotive.