Much to her relief, Vera found that of Winthrop she was no longer afraid.
“Oh!” she protested, “didn’t you say, twelve years ago, a humble boy played ball for Hobart College. That boy now stands before you? Didn’t you say that?”
“Something like that,” assented the District Attorney. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “that young man who showed me in here—your confederate or fellow-conspirator or lookout man or whatever he is—told me you used to be a regular attendant at those games.”
“I never missed one!” Vera cried. She leaned forward, her eyes shining, her brows knit with the effort of recollection.
“I used to tell Aunt,” she said, “I had to drive in for the mail. But that was only an excuse. Aunt had an old buggy, and an old white horse called Roscoe Conkling. I called him Rocks. He was blind in one eye, and he would walk on the wrong side of the road; you had to drive him on one rein.” The girl was speaking rapidly, eagerly. She had lost all fear of her visitor. With satisfaction Winthrop recognized this; and unconsciously he was now frankly regarding the face of the girl with a smile of pleasure and admiration.
“And I used to tie him to the fence just opposite first base,” Vera went on excitedly, “and shout—for you!”
“Don’t tell me,” interrupted Winthrop, in burlesque excitement, “that you were that very pretty little girl, with short dresses and long legs, who used to sit on the top rail and kick and cheer.”
Vera shook her head sternly.
“I was,” she said, “but you never saw me.”
“Oh, yes, we did,” protested Winthrop. “We used to call you our mascot.”