Wayne sat amid a turbulent throng in the ball park and watched Joe with pride. And is there in the history of sport another game so exacting in its demands on skill, judgment and strength, so prolific of surprise, as our national game? Or did ever Greek athlete bend his lithe body into forms half so graceful as those seen a hundred times on the diamond in every contest! The shortstop at his nimble pick-up and throw has no points to yield to the Discobolus of Myron. Behold Joe Denny, a master of the pitcher’s art and all its subtle psychology! The man at the bat is less his antagonist than his victim. He plays upon doubt, hesitation, and suspense. His good nature, expressed in a half-ironic grin, is part of his equipment. That deliberate search for the proper footing, those tentative thrusts of his shoe into the earth, are features of his strategy. His glance at the bases is the most casual--never furtive or anxious. He holds the stage, the coolest figure in the scene. A declaration of war between powers is awaited less anxiously than his delivery. He caresses and woos the ball, but is at all times its master. He lifts it with a graceful sweep above his head; arms and body are in perfect agreement; the mind has devised the exact curve and speed of the flight, and the arm is shrewd in execution. The world leans to the ordained, controlled flight; there is quick after-play; and again young Atlas, a trifle bored by his applause, takes the ball into his hands and by wit and strength lures another batter to destruction. Whatever Joe’s right arm might have been, his left had its own peculiar cunning. After two innings he had the opposing batters at his mercy; his grin broadened under the stimulus of the cheering. He struck out three men in succession and the crowd was wild. “They was fruit,” said Joe later, as he and Wayne ate supper in the village hotel. “They hadn’t any eye. They fanned before the ball started.” “It’s too bad to waste you. You ought to go back into the game,” said Wayne. “You’d better write to those fellows who wanted you in New York before you cracked your arm. They’re always looking for talent.” “Ain’t we goin’ to work? Ball playin’ ain’t work, it’s fun,” replied Joe; but Wayne knew that the taste of the joys of the game had whetted Joe’s appetite, and that only loyalty to himself kept him from going back to it. A few nights later they walked into Denbeigh. This was Jean’s country at last and this was the town where she had grown to womanhood, and gone to school, and seen the dead men brought out of the pit. And here she and Joe had played together and had been sweethearts--this was in Wayne’s thought and not less in Joe’s we may well believe. But they did not speak her name and had not spoken it since the night Wayne visited Joe in the garage; and that was very long ago!