And he'd have to find
a new job. Breede wouldn't think of keeping on the scoundrel who had
lured his child away.
Still, the flapper's mind was set on an early marriage, and, for this
once, at least, he would let her have her own way. No good being brutal
at the start. They would get along; scrimp and save; even move to
Brooklyn, maybe. He looked into the far years and saw his son, greatest
of all left-handed pitchers, shutting out Pittsburgh without a single
hit. A very aged couple in the grandstand tried to claim relationship
with his pitching marvel, saying he was their grandson, but few of the
yelling enthusiasts would credit it. One of the crowd would later
question the phenomenon's father, who was none other than the owner of
the home team, and he would say, "Oh, yes, quite true, but there has
been no communication between the two families for more than twenty
years."
There would now follow from the abject grandparents timid overtures for
a reconciliation, they having at last seen their mistake. These
overtures met with a varying response. Sometimes he was adamant and told
them no; they had made their bed twenty years before, and now they could
lie on it. Again, he would relent, allowing them to come to the house
and associate with their superb descendant once every week. He didn't
want to be too hard on them.
And he was not penniless. He would continue in the unexciting express
business for a while, until he had amassed enough to buy the ball-team.
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