“I don’t know where this came from,” he said, “but it’s got what you want to know. The series opens in Chicago next Saturday. They play there Saturday and Sunday, jump back to New York Monday and play here Tuesday and Wednesday.”
“And,” said I, “may the better team win—in four games.”
We were anchored in the harbor, waiting for a pilot, that was, as usual, late. I was impatient but M. de M. didn’t seem to care. He’s wild about ocean travel so long as it’s stationary.
Presently the youngest of the food commissioners, one Mr. Bowron, joined us. He asked the name of every piece of land in sight. We answered all his questions, perhaps correctly.
“That one,” said M. de M., pointing, “is Staten Island. Of course you’ve heard of it.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Mr. Bowron.
“What!” cried Mr. Hanson. “Never heard of Staten Island!”
“The home of Matty McIntyre,” I put in. “One of the greatest outside lefts in the history of soccer. He played with the Detroit and Chicago elevens in the American League.”
Mr. Bowron looked apologetic.
“And in that direction,” said Mr. Hanson, pointing again, “is Coney Island, where fashionable New York spends its summers.”