"Napoleon knew human nature like a book,"
said one of the inspired historians. That was all you needed to know. He
resolved to study human nature.
At precisely ten minutes past twelve on the following Saturday he laid
upon old Metzeger's desk the exact sum of five dollars and eighty-seven
cents. One less gifted as to human nature would have said, "Thank you!"
and laid down five dollars and ninety cents. Bean fell into neither
trap. Metzeger looked quickly at the clock and silently took the money.
He had become the prey of a man who surmised him accurately.
Then occurred one of those familiar tragedies of the wage slave. The
whole week long he had looked forward to the ball game. In the box that
afternoon would be the Greatest Pitcher the World Had Ever Known. This
figure had loomed in his mind that week bigger at times than all his
past incarnations. He was going to forego a sight of his dog in order to
be early on the ground. He 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.
Pages:
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85