Bean pulled his collar from about his suddenly constricted throat.
"Letters!" He pointed to the note-book.
"Have 'em ready Monday noon. C'mon! Two-thirty now."
The early hour was as incredible as this social phenomenon.
"Daughter!" said Breede, with half a glance at the flapper, and deeming that he had performed a familiar social rite.
"Pleased to meet you!" said Bean, dazedly. The flapper jerked her head in a double nod.
Of the interval that must have elapsed before he found himself seated in the grandstand between Breede and the flapper he was able to recall but little. It was as if a dense fog shut him in. Once it lifted and he suffered a vision of himself in a swiftly propelled motor-car, beside an absorbed mechanician. He half turned in his seat and met the cool, steady gaze of the flapper; she smiled, but quickly checked herself to resume the stare; he was aware that Breede was at her side. And the fog closed in again. It was too unbelievable.
A bell clanged twice and his brain cleared. He saw the scurry of uniformed figures to the field, the catcher adjusted his mask. The Greatest Pitcher the World Has Ever Known stood nonchalantly in the box, stooped for a handful of earth and with it polluted the fair surface of a new ball. A second later the ball shot over the plate. The batter fanned, the crowd yelled.
