"There he is!" exclaimed Breede; "that's him!" Breede leaned out over the railing and pointed to the Greatest Pitcher the World Has Ever Seen. Bean sat coolly back.
The Pitcher scanned the first rows of faces in the grandstand. His glance came to rest on a slight, becomingly attired young man, who betrayed no emotion, and, in the presence of twenty thousand people, the Pitcher unmistakably saluted Bunker Bean. Bean gracefully acknowledged the attention.
"He know you?" queried Breede with animation.
"Know me!" He looked at Breede almost pityingly, then turned away.
The Pitcher sent the ball fairly over the plate.
"Stur-r-r-r-ike one!" bellowed the umpire.
"With him all morning," said Bean condescendingly to his admiring companion. "Get shirts same place," he added.
His cup had run over. He was on the point of confiding to his companion the supreme felicity in store for Breede as a grandfather. But the batter struck out and the moment was only for raw rejoicing. They forgot. Bean ceased to be a puzzle to any one, and Breede lapsed into unconsciousness of Julia.
The game held them for eleven innings. The Greatest Pitcher saved it to the home team.
"He was saying to me only this morning—" began Bean, as the Pitcher fielded the last bunt. But the prized quotation was lost in the uproar. Pandemonium truly reigned and the scene was unquestionably one of indescribable confusion.