More than once I had been proud of Milly's cleverness, but this night as hostess and an accomplice she won my everlasting admiration. She contrived to give the impression that Whit was a frequent visitor at her home and very welcome. She brought out his best points, and in her skillful hands he lost embarrassment and awkwardness. Before the evening was over Nan regarded Whit with different eyes, and she never dreamed that everything had not come about naturally. Then Milly somehow got me out on the porch, leaving Nan and Whit together. "Milly, you're a marvel, the best and sweetest ever," I whispered. "We're going to win. It's a cinch." "Well, Connie, not that--exactly," she whispered back demurely. "But it looks hopeful." I could not help hearing what was said in the parlor. "Now I can roast you," Nan was saying, archly. She had switched back to her favorite baseball vernacular. "You pitched a swell game last Saturday in Rochester, didn't you? Not! You had no steam, no control, and you couldn't have curved a saucer." "Nan, what could you expect?" was the cool reply. "You sat up in the stand with your handsome friend. I reckon I couldn't pitch. I just gave the game away." "Whit!--Whit!----" Then I whispered to Milly that it might be discreet for us to move a little way from the vicinity. It was on the second day afterward that I got a chance to talk to Nan. She reached the grounds early, before Milly arrived, and I found her in the grand stand. The Rube was down on the card to pitch and when he started to warm up Nan said confidently that he would shut out Hartford that afternoon. "I'm sorry, Nan, but you're way off. We'd do well to win at all, let alone get a shutout." "You're a fine manager!" she retorted, hotly. "Why won't we win?" "Well, the Rube's not in good form. The Rube----" "Stop calling him that horrid name." "Whit's not in shape. He's not right. He's ill or something is wrong. I'm worried sick about him." "Why--Mr. Connelly!" exclaimed Nan. She turned quickly toward me. I crowded on full canvas of gloom to my already long face. "I'm serious, Nan. The lad's off, somehow. He's in magnificent physical trim, but he can't keep his mind on the game. He has lost his head. I've talked with him, reasoned with him, all to no good. He only goes down deeper in the dumps. Something is terribly wrong with him, and if he doesn't brace, I'll have to release----" Miss Nan Brown suddenly lost a little of her rich bloom. "Oh! you wouldn't--you couldn't release him!"