“Lot of bone-heads,” said the other sourly. At first glance our friend thought he looked like an actor and his heart sank. But perhaps he might be a travelling salesman. He liked them. In either event, the stranger’s estimate of the New York ball team pleased him. He rejoiced in every defeat it sustained, particularly at the hands of the Chicagos.
“Not in it with the Cubs,” he announced, blitheness in his manner. Here was a man after his own heart.
But the stranger glared at him. “The Cubs?” he said, his voice hardening, his manner turning aggressive.
“They make the Giants look like two-spots,” went on our friend, recklessly.
The stranger looked him over pityingly and then ended the conversation by deliberately hiding himself behind his newspaper. Our hero opened his lips to add further comment, but something in the way the paper crackled caused 14 him to close them and turn back to his bitter survey of the Hudson. And the confounded fellow had invited his confidence, too!
He got down at Tarrytown and started up the hill. The station-master pointed him out to a friend.
“That’s—er—What’s-His-Name—Nellie Duluth’s husband.”
“That guy?”
“She keeps him up here in a cottage to take care of the baby. Away from the temptations of the city,” said the agent, with a broad wink.
“I didn’t know she was married,” said his friend, who lived in Yonkers.