“Well, what I meant is that it’s so plaguy easy to overdo that part of it, Deane, so easy to let psychology take the place of common sense. Besides, what does any one know about it, after all? As a practical aid to winning ball games it’s been a good deal overrated, I think. Baseball writers like to use the phrase ‘the psychology of the game,’ but more than likely what they call a psychological manifestation――or whatever they _do_ call it――if tracked down will resolve into some such chance happening as a ball hitting a pebble and bounding wrong or a pitcher having a twinge in his elbow as he lets the ball go. All the psychology in the world won’t win a ball game, Deane, or lose one; not unless we call psychology by a shorter name.” “You mean――luck, sir?” “Chance,” said Mr. Connover. “Chance, the finest baseball and football general in the histories of the games!” Wattles, seated slightly behind the wheel chair, listened in rapt attention to the talks and discussions. There were times during a debate on the proper play with which to meet a situation when Wattles allowed himself a slight compression of the lips or a faintly eloquent elevation of the eyebrows. Occasionally Wattles might express agreement of a hearty character by placing an immaculate handkerchief to his nose and trumpeting loudly. But he knew his place, did Wattles, and no matter how vehemently he might agree or disagree with the contentions of either the coach or Loring he kept his mouth tight. Perhaps it was not easy, either, for Wattles, too, had delved into baseball lore, reading word for word with Loring, and had formed opinions. Then, too, Wattles had one advantage over Loring. Wattles had played the game! He had never mentioned that lapse from dignity, nor had Loring ever questioned. Wattles had had more than thirty minutes of thrills that Saturday afternoon when, jokingly invited by the boy who clerked in Burger’s drug store, he had cast discretion to the winds, removed part of his apparel and chased about over a dusty field in pursuit of an elusive ball. Afterwards he had regretted the affair. Or had he? He was never quite certain as to that. Certain it was, however, that the memory of those wild moments still brought a glow; and certain it was, although Wattles sternly refused to acknowledge it, that if a like opportunity occurred again he would once more forget his dignity and his derby!