Loring attended practice nearly every day. With the excellent Wattles as chauffeur, the chair was wheeled across to the second team diamond and installed in a sunny corner near the end of the stand and about opposite first base. It was a location from which Loring could watch the plate and the infield equally well, and its one disadvantage was due to the frequency with which foul balls invaded it. Loring himself was not at all troubled by that disadvantage, but Wattles was on tenterhooks constantly. Wattles was almost certain that he could catch a baseball if it came within reach, and there were moments when he would have welcomed a chance to prove his ability. But there were many more moments when he devoutly prayed that no such opportunity would be afforded him. Wattles was a dignified person, and the fear that he might, in spite of what was almost a conviction to the contrary, fail to make the catch and thus lose his dignity and become a laughing stock filled him with dread. Every time a ball glanced from a bat Wattles shot a hand to the brim of his black derby, stiffened with suspense and prepared to sell his life dearly. During practice Loring had many visitors. He was well liked and thoroughly respected. There was, however, in spite of his friendly countenance, something about him that deterred merely casual acquaintances from claiming the privileges of friendship. Mr. Wadleigh always walked over and talked a moment, and so did several of the others from the bench. Frequently one or more friends would occupy the bench at his elbow and keep him company during part of the practice. Later, when he and Wattles followed the second team to the first team diamond, Coach Connover approached for a few words, or Hurry Leland or Pat Tyson paused a moment coming off the field. To-day, the Thursday after the Murray game, a warm, sparkling mid-April afternoon, a stranger to Loring seated himself a few feet away on the first row of the stand. He was a fairly tall, bonily-thin man attired in a loose suit of gray tweed that had undoubtedly seen service and seemed somehow to have gained honor and distinction in the process. Loring’s glance of uninterested inquiry became a somewhat prolonged study. The stranger’s face, like his body, was thin, with high cheek bones and a rather more than adequate nose. The skin was sallow, pronouncedly so, yet did not suggest unhealthiness. Nor did the many tiny wrinkles about the eyes and around the corners of the mouth suggest age. The stranger was, Loring decided, no more than thirty-six, or, well, thirty-eight at the most. It was difficult to guess with certainty the age of those wiry, thin men. This particular specimen looked as if he had seen a good deal with those bright, brown, half-veiled eyes, and Loring could imagine him looking quite as much at home on the back of a swaying camel or huddled in an Arctic shelter as he did here, leaning forward,