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“Whit, it’s a magnificent sight–that beautiful green field and the stands. What a crowd of fans! Why, I never saw a real baseball crowd before. There are twenty thousand here. And there’s a difference in the feeling. It’s sharper –new to me. It’s big league baseball. Not a soul in that crowd ever heard of you, but, I believe, tomorrow the whole baseball world will have heard of you. Mr. Morrisey knows. I saw it in his face. Captain Spears knows. Connie knows. I know.”

Then she lifted her face and, pulling him down within reach, she kissed him. Nan took her husband’s work in dead earnest; she gloried in it, and perhaps she had as much to do with making him a great pitcher as any of us.

The Rube left the box, and I found a seat between Nan and Milly. The field was a splendid sight. Those bleachers made me glow with managerial satisfaction. On the field both teams pranced and danced and bounced around in practice.

In spite of the absolutely last degree of egotism manifested by the Philadelphia players, I could not but admire such a splendid body of men.

“So these are the champions of last season and of this season, too,” commented Milly. “I don’t wonder. How swiftly and cleanly they play! They appear not to exert themselves, yet they always get the ball in perfect time. It all reminds me of–of the rhythm of music. And that champion batter and runner–that Lane in center– isn’t he just beautiful? He walks and runs like a blue-ribbon winner at the horse show. I tell you one thing, Connie, these Quakers are on dress parade.”

“Oh, these Quakers hate themselves, I don’t think!” retorted Nan. Being a rabid girl-fan it was, of course, impossible for Nan to speak baseball convictions or gossip without characteristic baseball slang. “Stuck on themselves! I never saw the like in my life. That fellow Lane is so swelled that he can’t get down off his toes. But he’s a wonder, I must admit that. They’re a bunch of stars. Easy, fast, trained–they’re machines, and I’ll bet they’re Indians to fight. I can see it sticking out all over them. This will certainly be some game with Whit handing up that jump ball of his to this gang of champs. But, Connie, I’ll go you Whit beats them.”

I laughed and refused to gamble.

The gong rang; the crowd seemed to hum and rustle softly to quiet attention; Umpire McClung called the names of the batteries; then the familiar “Play!”

There was the usual applause from the grand stand and welcome cheers from the bleachers. The Rube was the last player to go out. Morrisey was a manager who always played to the stands, and no doubt he held the Rube back for effect. If so, he ought to have been gratified. That moment reminded me of my own team and audience upon the occasion of the Rube’s debut. It was the same only here it happened in the big league, before a championship team and twenty thousand fans.

The roar that went up from the bleachers might well have scared an unseasoned pitcher out of his wits. And the Quakers lined up before their bench and gazed at this newcomer who had the nerve to walk out there to the box. Cogswell stood on the coaching line, looked at the Rube and then held up both arms and turned toward the Chicago bench as if to ask Morrisey: “Where did you get that?”

Nan, quick as a flash to catch a point, leaned over the box-rail and looked at the champions with fire in her eye. “Oh, you just wait! wait!” she bit out between her teeth.