ough; then nothing but
old Base B. Ball for mine! You'll see. I'll pick up one the big clubs
somewhere if _money'll_ do it!"

"Well, it's the one branch of the business where you don't have to treat
your arm like a sick baby," said the Pitcher. "Say, you want to come
inside a while?"

To Bean's amazement the car had stopped before the players' entrance. He
had supposed himself miles back in the country. Did he want to go inside
for a while! He was out of the car as quickly as Nap could have achieved
it.

"What did you say your name was?" asked the Pitcher.

He was in a long room lined with lockers. He recognized several players
lounging there. A big man with a hard face, half in a uniform, was
singing, "Though Silver Threads Are 'Mong the Gold, I Love You Just the
Same." These men were requested to shake hands with the Pitcher's
friend, Mr. Bean. They were also told informally that his new check suit
was some suit.

"I'll soon have one coming off the same piece," said the Pitcher.

They went through a little door and out upon the grounds. A few players
were idling there, only two of the pitchers being in uniform. The vast
empty stands and bleachers seemed to confer privacy upon an informal and
friendly gathering.

Several more players shook hands with the Pitcher's friend, Mr. Bean,
and the circumstance of his presence was explained.

"I found your twist-paw out in the brush with nothing but a bum trolley
car between him and a long walk," said Bean jauntily.

"He's got the prettiest red car that ever made you jump at a crossing,"
added the Pitcher.

They sat on the bench together.

"He winds up like old Sycamore," said Bean expertly of a young pitcher
who was working nearby.

"He does for a fact," testified one of the players. "Did you know old
Syc?"

"Chicago," said Bean. "Down and out; coming in from some tank-team and
having to wear his uniform for underclothes all winter."

They regarded him with respectful interest.

"Poor Syc could never learn to take water in it," said one.

"He lived in a boarding-house two doors away from me," said Bean. "And
when he'd taken about six or seven in at Frank's Place, he'd start
singing 'My Darling Nellie Gray,' only he'd have to cry at about the
third verse; then he'd lick some man that was laughing at him."

"That's old Syc, all right. You _got_ him, pal!"

The talk went to other stars of the past. Bean mostly listened, but when
he spoke they heard one who