Mr. Robinson frowned, but kept on his way. He was back of the stands now. The scene was hidden from the street by a long strip of canvas. He looked about him; the road was deserted hereabouts. He stooped and strove to look under the canvas, but he saw only a pair of sturdy, red-stockinged legs. The cheering became wild and incoherent, and was punctuated with hand-clapping and the stamping of many feet on the boards. Mr. Robinson went on at a faster gait, something of excitement appearing in his face. At the gate a few loiterers stood about. Mr. Robinson approached one of them and asked with elaborate indifference:
“What—ah—what is the score?” “Seven to six in favor of Princeton. They’ve knocked Miller out of the box.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Robinson glanced at his watch. “I—ah—suppose the game is about over?”
“Last of the sixth. There, that’s three out. This is the seventh now.” From the left somewhere came cheers for Princeton.
“Thank you.” Mr. Robinson turned and went on, followed by long, inspiriting “Ha-a-ar-vards!” But the scenery was not attractive and the breeze was no longer cool. He stopped, frowned, and gazed absorbedly at the sidewalk, drawing figures with the end of his cane in the gravel.
“It must be very close,” he muttered. Then, after a moment, “Jimmie will be badly disappointed if they’re beaten.”
With sudden resolution he stuck his cane under his arm, pulled his waistcoat free of wrinkles, and walked quickly, determinedly, back to the entrance. At the ticket booth he drew a bill from his pocketbook and, in the act of purchasing, recalled his informant of a few minutes before. He was still there, craning his head and listening.
“Here, do you want to see the last of this?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” was the eager answer.