At any crisis they instinctively laid gripping
hands upon each other and, half-rising, with distended eyes and tense
half-voices, besought some panting runner to "Come on! Come _on_, you!
Oh, come _on_!" There were other moments of supreme joy when they were
blown to their feet and backs were impartially pounded. More than once
they might have been observed, with brandishing fists, shouting,
"Robber! Robber! _Robber!!!_" at the unperturbed man behind the plate
who merely looked at an indicator in his hand and resumed 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.
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