“Excuse me,” he said, as he paused at the table. “I believe I have heard of you before.”
“No doubt of it—no doubt whatever,” instantly retorted Wiley. “I am notorious from the equator to the Arctic circle. My face is spread broadcast from Kalamazoo to Hongkong.”
“You are a baseball player?”
“I am; I confess it. I am one of the finest baseball players this great and glorious country has ever produced. I am lingering here a day or two before proceeding East to take charge of the New York Nationals. Once or twice I have suspected that I would never again prance forth upon the diamond and toy with the leather sphere; but I am unable to restrain my natural inclination, and the ozone of this gorgeous spring atmosphere has set the baseball fever throbbing once more in my pulmonary artery. Are you interested in the great American game, sir?”
“I am what is called a fan,” answered the stranger, with a faint smile. “I presume that is how it happens that I have heard of you. If I remember right, you were with Frank Merriwell’s team last season?”
“On one glorious occasion I delivered the goods for that organization. I presume you read an account of it in the newspapers? The press of the entire country literally palpitated with it.”
“I saw an account of it somewhere. Who is your young friend?”
The man nodded toward the hunchback.
“Whom?” said Wiley. “Why, he is Master Abe, the wizard violinist. He’s one of the greatest musicians of modern times. His playing would draw tears from eyes of stone. You should hear him, sir. He has thrilled the hearts of thousands. Why, when we were abroad together he played before the crowned heads of the foreign countries.”
Abe looked surprised.