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:
