Of an absent player, Breede said he was too old--all of thirty-five. He'd never come back. "They come back when they learn to play ball above the ears," retorted Bean with crisp sapience. "How about old Cy Young? How about old Callahan of the Sox? How about Wagner out there--think he's only nineteen--hey? Tell me _that_!" He looked pityingly at the man of millions thus silenced. Two men scored from third and second, thanks to a wild throw. "Inside play, there?" said Breede. "Inside, nothing!" retorted Bean arrogantly. "Matty couldn't get back to second and they _had_ to run. If that Silas up there hadn't gone foamy in the fighting-top and tried to hit that policeman over by the fence with the ball, where'd your inside play been? D'you think the Pirates are trying to help 'em play inside ball? Inside, nothing!" Again Breede looked respectful, and the flapper listened, lustrous-eyed. The finish was close. With two men out in the last half of the ninth and two strikes called on the batter, a none too certain single brought in the winning run. The clinging trio shrieked--then dazedly fell apart. Life had gone from the magic. The vast crowd also fell apart to units, flooding to the narrow gates. Outside Breede looked at Bean as if, faintly puzzled, he was trying to recall the fellow's face. One could fancy him saying, "Prob'ly some chap works in m' office." Father and daughter entered the car. Bean raised his dented hat. Breede was oblivious; the flapper permitted herself a severe double nod. The motor chugged violently. Bean, moving on a few steps, turned. The flapper was looking back. She stared an instant then most astonishingly smiled, a smile that seemed almost vocal with many glad words. Bean felt himself smile weakly in response. He walked a long way before he took a car, his eyes on the pavement, his mind filled with a vision. When the flapper smiled it did something to him, but what it was he couldn't tell. She had a different face when she smiled; her parting lips made a new beauty in the world. He thought the golden brown of her hair rather wonderful. It was like the golden brown of the new dog. He recalled little details of her face, the short upper lip, the forward chin, the breadth of the brow. There was something disconcerting about that brow and the eyes like her father's--probably have her own way! Then he remembered that he must have noticed a badge pinned to the left lapel of a jacket that had been fashioned--with no great difficulty, he thought--to give its wearer the appearance of perfect physical development. He couldn't remember when he had precisely noted this badge, perhaps in some frenzied moment in the game's delirium, but it was vividly before him now--"VOTES FOR WOMEN!" What did that signify in her character? Perhaps something not too pleasant. Still--he lived again through the smile that had seemed to speak. * * * * *