sumed his professional crouch quite as if nothing had happened.
And there were moments of snappy, broken talk, comments on individual players, a raking over the records. It was not Breede who talked to Bean then. It was one freed soul communicating with another. He none too gently put Breede right in the matter of Wagner's batting average for the previous year and the price that had been paid for the new infielder. And Breede in spirit sat meekly at his feet, grateful for his lore.
Of an absent player, Breede said he was too old—all of thirty-five. He'd never come back.
"They come back when they learn to play ball above the ears," retorted Bean with crisp sapience. "How about old Cy Young? How about old Callahan of the Sox? How about Wagner out there—think he's only nineteen—hey? Tell me that!"
He looked pityingly at the man of millions thus silenced.
Two men scored from third and second, thanks to a wild throw.
"Inside play, there?" said Breede.
"Inside, nothing!" retorted Bean arrogantly. "Matty couldn't get back to second and they had to run. If that Silas up there hadn't gone foamy in the fighting-top and tried to hit that policeman over by the fence with the ball, where'd your inside play been? D'you think the Pirates are trying to help 'em play inside ball? Inside, nothing!"
