The flapper astounded him.
"I don't think they have it over here--baseball," she observed.
No baseball? She must be crazy. He rang the bell.
The capable Swiss entered. In less than ten minutes he was able to
convince the amazed American that baseball was positively not played on
the continent of Europe. It was monstrous. It put a different aspect
upon Europe.
"Makes no difference where we go, then," announced Bean. "Just any
little old last year's place. We'll 'lope."
"Ripping," applauded the flapper, with brightening eyes.
"Hurry and dress. I'll get a little old car and we'll beat it before
they get back. No time for trunk; take bag."
Down in the office he found they made nothing of producing little old
cars for the right people. The car was there even as he was taking the
precaution to secure a final assurance from the manager that Paris did
not by any chance play London that day.
The two bags were installed in the ready car; then a radiant flapper
beside an amateur upstart. The driver desired instructions.
"_Ally, ally!_" directed Bean, waving a vague but potent hand.
"We've done it," rejoiced the flapper. "Serve the perfectly old taggers
good and plenty right!"
Bean lifted a final gaze to the laurel-crowned Believer. He knew that
Believer's secret now.
"What a stunning tie," exclaimed the flapper. "It just perfectly does
something to you."
"'S little old last year's tie," said her husband carelessly.
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