oint of confiding to his companion
the supreme felicity in store for Breede as a grandfather. But the
batter struck out and the moment was only for raw rejoicing. They
forgot. Bean ceased to be a puzzle to any one, and Breede lapsed into
unconsciousness of Julia.

The game held them for eleven innings. The Greatest Pitcher saved it to
the home team.

"He was saying to me only this morning--" began Bean, as the Pitcher
fielded the last bunt. But the prized quotation was lost in the uproar.
Pandemonium truly reigned and the scene was unquestionably one of
indescribable confusion.

Outside the gate they were again Breede and Bean; or, rather, Bean and
Breede. The latter could not so quickly forget that public recognition
by the Greatest Pitcher.

"You're a puzzle t'me," said Breede. "Lord! I can't g'ome yet. Have't
take me club."

"Can't make y'out," admitted Breede once more, as they parted before the
sanctuary he had indicated.

"Often puzzle myself," confessed the inscrutable one, as the little old
last year's car started on. Breede stood on the pavement looking after
it. For some reason the car puzzled him, too.

Bean was wondering if Julia herself wouldn't have been a little appeased
if she could have seen the Pitcher single him out of that throng. Some
day he might crush the woman by actually taking the Pitcher to call.

At his door he dismissed the car. He wanted quiet. He wanted to think it
all out. That morning it had seemed probable that by this time he would
have been occupying a felon's cell, inspecting the magazines and fruit
sent to him. Instead, he was not only free, but he was keeping a man
worth many millions from his own home, and perhaps he had caused that
man's wife to send over to White Plains for some more. It was Ram-tah.
All Ram-tah. If only every one could find his Ram-tah--

Cassidy was reading his favourite evening paper, the one that shrieked
to the extreme limits of its first page in scarlet headlines and mammoth
type. It was a paper that Bean never bought, because the red ink rubbed
off to the peril of one's eighteen-dollar suit.

Cassidy, who for thirty years had voted as the ward-boss directed, was
for the moment believing himself to be a rabid socialist.

"Wall Street crooks!" he began, in a fine orative frenzy. "Dur-r-rinkin'
their champagne whilst th' honest poor's lucky t' git a shell av hops!
Ruh-hobbin' th' tax-pay'r f'r' t' buy floozie gowns an' joold bresslets
f'r their