“I don’t see anything very funny in it,” he answered. “He takes after me.” Meanwhile Mr. Cooper and Loring were getting quite well acquainted over there. Mr. Cooper’s introductory remark had been a question revealing his colossal ignorance of the intricacies of the national pastime, and Loring had secretly thought it strange that Cooper had allowed his father to remain so unenlightened. But he was glad to supply the desired information, and explained not only the point then puzzling Mr. Cooper but several others which arose later. Mr. Cooper moved nearer and leaned his arms on the railing. In doing so he brought Wattles into direct range and included him in the friendly smile which accompanied his next remark. Watching, Loring was then and there convinced of one thing. If Wattles recognized Mr. Cooper as some one he had seen before, Mr. Cooper certainly had no recollection of Wattles. He had a rather deep voice which, however, encompassed several tones. The end of a remark might and frequently did end half a dozen notes higher than where it had begun, a feature that Loring found both odd and interesting. He spoke somewhat deliberately but without any drawl; in fact, although uttered slowly, his words were distinct and crisp. He was, Loring presently decided, undoubtedly an American, but an American who had traveled much and whose speech and manner of speaking had been borrowed from many lands. The conversation ranged from baseball to the school, and about the latter Mr. Cooper was frankly curious. He had not, it appeared, seen any of the buildings save from the outside. “Why,” exclaimed Loring, “haven’t you even been up to Cooper’s――I mean your son’s room, sir?” “My son’s room?” repeated the other, almost startedly. “Yes, sir,” said Loring uncertainly. “I thought――some one said―― Aren’t you Jack Cooper’s father, sir?” The gentleman shook his head. “Really, no,” he answered. “Who, if you don’t mind, is Jack Cooper?” Loring, in some confusion, pointed him out――Jack’s face at the moment was pretty well hidden behind the catcher’s mask――and the man who wasn’t his father looked at him for several moments. Then: “Fine looking chap,” he said, “but we’re not related. Sorry.” “But you are Mr. Cooper, aren’t you?” “Yes, but apparently not the right one.” He smiled deprecatingly while Loring said hastily: “I guess it was Clif Bingham who told me you were Cooper’s father. That was Saturday. I――we passed you on the street, sir.” “I remember. Bingham is the boy who was at the helm that day?” “The helm? Oh, no, sir, that was Tom Kemble. Clif was the other.” “I thought I recognized them both here a bit ago. Isn’t that Kemble standing by the cage thing?” “Yes, sir, and Clif Bingham’s playing out in the field; the middle one of the three.”