“Who are the fellows over there by the desk?” asked Myron.
“The tall one’s their coach, and I guess the others are the Board of Strategy, which is a fancy name for a bunch of fellows who travel around with the team and get their expenses paid out of the travelling fund. I think the short fellow is Whitely, their manager, but I’m not certain. Come on, we’ll see enough of them before the afternoon’s over!”
In the act of turning, Myron’s gaze encountered a rather tall youth in the lobby whose face became for the first time visible to him at that moment. Surely it was Maurice Millard, he thought. And yet it couldn’t be, since Millard would never be hob-nobbing with the Kenwood coach. Resisting Chas’ tug at his sleeve, he gazed at the object of his speculations while a vague uneasiness took possession of him. It was Millard! He knew him now. It was Millard in a long fuzzy brown ulster and a derby hat, Millard looking far less carefree and cordial than he remembered him. Myron seized the departing Chas and literally dragged him back through the crowd.
“Who’s the tall, good-looking fellow in the brown coat?” he demanded anxiously.
“Where is he? I don’t see any good, tall-looking fellow in—Oh, yes! That’s What’s-his-name, the Kenwood third baseman. He’s a pill. He’s played with them two years. Know him?”
“I think so,” answered Myron, “a—a little. His name’s Millard, isn’t it?”
“Mill-ah? No, it isn’t Mill-ah; it’s Cooke, Arthur Cooke. Come along home and stop annoying the animals.”
Myron looked again, but there was no chance for doubt. He turned and made his way through the group of loiterers in the wake of Chas and Joe. When he had overtaken the former he asked earnestly: “Are you quite certain his name is Cooke, Cummins?”
“Sure I am! Why not? He’s the blow-hard that was going to do all sorts of things to Liddell last spring, if you believe the papers. He is a pretty fair batter, and that’s no joke, but Liddell had him swinging like a gate and as mad as a hornet. He got a scratch single, and that’s all he did get, the big boob!”
“And—and he’s—he’s one of the Kenwood Board of Strategy, as you call it?” asked Myron faintly.