He began a lordly survey of the people at neighbouring tables—people who had doubtless walked there, or come in hired cabs, at the best. Hired cabs had yesterday seemed impressive to him; now they were rather vulgar. Of course, there might be circumstances—
He froze like a pointing dog. At a table not twenty feet distant, actually in the flesh, sat the Greatest Pitcher the World Has Ever Known. For a moment he could only stare fixedly. The man was simply there! He was talking volubly to two other men, and he was also eating a mere raspberry ice!
It showed how things "worked around," once you got started. Hadn't his whole life been a proof of this? How many times had he wished he might happen upon that Pitcher just as he was now, in street clothes—to look at him, study him! He wished he had ordered raspberry ice instead of ginger ale, which he didn't like. He would order one anyway.
It was all Ram-tah. If you knew you were a king, you needn't ever worry again. You sat still and let things come to you. After all, a king was greater than a pitcher, if you came down to it—in some ways, certainly.
He stared until the group left the table. He could actually have touched the Pitcher as he passed. Would wonders never cease?
Two men in uniform helped him into the big red car again, tenderly, as if he were fragile. He had meant to return to the garage, but now he saw the more dignified way was to stop at his own house. Further, Paul should take him to the office in the morning and call for him at four-thirty again. He wouldn't be afraid to ride in the red car even in daylight now. Sitting there not twenty feet from that Pitcher!
"Eight o'clock in the morning," he said curtly to Paul as he descended. And Paul touched his leather cap respectfully as the car moved off.
Cassidy lounged near in shirt sleeves.
"I see three was kilt-up in wan yistaday in th' Bur-ronx," said Cassidy interestedly.
"Good thing for the tired business man, though," said Bean, yawning in a bored way. "And that fellow of mine is careful."