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”Milly, you’re a marvel, the best and sweetest ever,” I whispered. ”We’re going to win. It’s a cinch.”

”Well, Connie, not that–exactly,” she whispered back demurely. ”But it looks hopeful.”

I could not help hearing what was said in the parlor.

”Now I can roast you,” Nan was saying, archly. She had switched back to her favorite baseball vernacular. ”You pitched a swell game last Saturday in Rochester, didn’t you? Not! You had no steam, no control, and you couldn’t have curved a saucer.”

”Nan, what could you expect?” was the cool reply. ”You sat up in the stand with your handsome friend. I reckon I couldn’t pitch. I just gave the game away.”

”Whit!–Whit!—-”

Then I whispered to Milly that it might be discreet for us to move a little way from the vicinity.

It was on the second day afterward that I got a chance to talk to Nan. She reached the grounds early, before Milly arrived, and I found her in the grand stand. The Rube was down on the card to pitch and when he started to warm up Nan said confidently that he would shut out Hartford that afternoon.

”I’m sorry, Nan, but you’re way off. We’d do well to win at all, let alone get a shutout.”

”You’re a fine manager!” she retorted, hotly. ”Why won’t we win?”

”Well, the Rube’s not in good form. The Rube—-”

”Stop calling him that horrid name.”

”Whit’s not in shape. He’s not right. He’s ill or something is wrong. I’m worried sick about him.”

”Why–Mr. Connelly!” exclaimed Nan. She turned quickly toward me.

I crowded on full canvas of gloom to my already long face.

”I ‘m serious, Nan. The lad’s off, somehow. He’s in magnificent physical trim, but he can’t keep his mind on the game. He has lost his head. I’ve talked with him, reasoned with him, all to no good. He only goes down deeper in the dumps. Something is terribly wrong with him, and if he doesn’t brace, I’ll have to release—-”

Miss Nan Brown suddenly lost a little of her rich bloom. ”Oh! you wouldn’t–you couldn’t release him!”

”I’ll have to if he doesn’t brace. It means a lot to me, Nan, for of course I can’t win the pennant this year without Whit being in shape. But I believe I wouldn’t mind the loss of that any more than to see him fall down. The boy is a magnificent pitcher. If he can only be brought around he’ll go to the big league next year and develop into one of the greatest pitchers the game has ever produced. But somehow or other he has lost heart. He’s quit. And I’ve done my best for him. He’s beyond me now. What a shame it is! For he’s the making of such a splendid man outside of baseball. Milly thinks the world of him. Well, well; there are disappointments– we can’t help them. There goes the gong. I must leave you. Nan, I’ll bet you a box of candy Whit loses today. Is it a go?”

”It is,” replied Nan, with fire in her eyes. ”You go to Whit Hurtle and tell him I said if he wins today’s game I’ll kiss him!”

I nearly broke my neck over benches and bats getting to Whit with that message. He gulped once.

Then he tightened his belt and shut out Hartford with two scratch singles. It was a great exhibition of pitching. I had no means to tell whether or not the Rube got his reward that night, but I was so happy that I hugged Milly within an inch of her life.

But it turned out that I had been a little premature in my elation. In two days the Rube went down into the depths again, this time clear to China, and Nan was sitting in the grand stand with Henderson. The Rube lost his next game, pitching like a schoolboy scared out of his wits. Henderson followed Nan like a shadow, so that I had no chance to talk to her. The Rube lost his next game and then another. We were pushed out of second place.