"Well, then, that's who."
"That's Gerard, playing ball?" interrogated Mr. Rose, incredulous. "What for? Lost his racing job?"
Laughing, Corrie shook his head.
"No, sir! Gerard is a member of the Mercury automobile company and has their western factory and all that end of the business in his hands. He races the Mercury car because he loves the work and because no one else can do it so well. No; practice for the Cup race opens to-morrow, and he's here on Long Island for that. But the pitcher of our home team put his arm out of business yesterday, and Gerard offered to pitch for this game. He knows everybody here—he always knows everybody everywhere, he's that kind. And I want to ask him to dinner," he concluded irrelevantly.
Mr. Rose scanned the field for a flying ball, as a sharp crack announced the first hit.
"Staying out here, or going in to the city each day?" he inquired.
"He's staying in Jamaica, sir."
"Then you'd best ask him to stop at your house until the race comes off, or he'll wreck his machine from weakness brought on by starvation," pronounced Mr. Rose, dryly. "One dinner won't carry him through weeks. I know those hotels, myself."
Corrie gasped, his face swept by delighted awe.
"Really? Oh, I'd give anything to have Gerard, Gerard, like that! Do you think he'll come?"