They went through a little door and out upon the grounds. A few players were idling there, only two of the pitchers being in uniform. The vast empty stands and bleachers seemed to confer privacy upon an informal and friendly gathering.
Several more players shook hands with the Pitcher's friend, Mr. Bean, and the circumstance of his presence was explained.
"I found your twist-paw out in the brush with nothing but a bum trolley car between him and a long walk," said Bean jauntily.
"He's got the prettiest red car that ever made you jump at a crossing," added the Pitcher.
They sat on the bench together.
"He winds up like old Sycamore," said Bean expertly of a young pitcher who was working nearby.
"He does for a fact," testified one of the players. "Did you know old Syc?"
"Chicago," said Bean. "Down and out; coming in from some tank-team and having to wear his uniform for underclothes all winter."
They regarded him with respectful interest.
"Poor Syc could never learn to take water in it," said one.