"Let's get into the crowd."
"Come on."
"It's ten minutes of five already."
Le Baron, passing, stopped Stover, saying excitedly:
"Say, Dink, watch out for the crowd who go Keys and let me know, will you? I mean the men in our crowd?"
"Sure I will."
Stover was in the throng, with a strange, sharp memory of Le Baron's drawn face. It was a silent mass, waiting, watch in hand, trying stoically to face down the suspense of the last awful minutes. Men he knew stared past him unseeing. Some were carefully dressed, and others stood in sweater and jersey, biting on pipes that were not lit. He heard a few scattered voices and the brief, crisp remarks came to him like the scattered popping of musketry.
"What's the time, Bill?"
"Three minutes of."
"Did they ever make a mistake?"