would see the practice and thrill to the first line-up. He had lived over and over that supreme moment when the umpire sweeps the plate with a stubby broom and adjusts his mask.
The correct coat was buttoned and the hat was being adjusted when the door of the inner office opened with a sharp rattle.
"Wantcha!" said Breede.
There was a fateful, trembling moment in which Breede was like to have been blasted; it was as if the magnate had wantonly affronted him who had once been the recipient of a second funeral in Paris. Keeping Bean from a ball game aroused that onetime self of his as perhaps nothing else would have done. But Breede was Breede, after all, and Bean swallowed the hot words that rose to his lips. His perturbation was such, however, that Breede caught something of it.
"Hadjer lunch?"
"No!" said Bean, murderously.
"Gitcha some quick. Hurry!"
He knew the worst now. The afternoon was gone.
"Don't want any!" It was a miniature explosion after the Breede manner.
"C'mon, then!"
He was at the desk and Breede dictated interminably. When pauses came he wrote scathing comments on Breede's attire, his parsimony in the matter of food, his facial defects, and some objectionable characteristics as a human being, now perceived for the first time. He grew careless
