They were moving through a cool green twilight not untroubled by gnats. But Cy Norton's, swearing under his breath, called for a halt.
"Look here, H.M.! Are you trying to flummox the police here too? Just as you always try to flummox 'em in England?"
"Well... now. Maybe just a little bit, son. Not very much."
"Ill tell you what you did," said Cy with the certainty of conviction. "You phoned that girl in the Bronx last night. You told her what to do and say. If the police went there today, she was to say she was Irene Stanley and act like Irene Stanley as long as she could. It wouldn't fool the police for long, but it would put 'em off the track for hours."
H.M. considered this, his cheeks puffed out as they continued their walk.
"More'n a few hours, son," he decided1. "That gal can tell enough lies, and convincing lies, to stretch from 161st Street to the Statue of Liberty."
"Then you're not after Manning at all! You're protecting him!"
"I'm protectin' him like billy-o, yes. Until they can show Fred Manning's a crook. After that..."
But Crystal, her eyes dreamy and her expression demurely amused, did not seem to be thinking of this.
"Sir Henry." She spoke softly. "Who is Flossie Peters?"
"I kept telling everybody," retorted H.M„ with a lofty but wary air, "that I had a friend here. She's a nice gal," said H.M., as though critically considering a slight acquaintance, "yes, a nice gal. I go there and sort of talk to her once in a while."
"Sir Henry," said Crystal gravely, "you are a wicked old man."
H.M.'s expression of outraged virtue would have shamed St. Anthony.
"I dunno what you're talkin' about!" he bellowed.
"Sir Henry, you have a popsy in New York." "But it ain't true! I'm not staying here, am I? The..."
He paused abruptly. They had all emerged into the open, and many eyes were watching them from the field.
And, as he looked at that baseball diamond, something which had been dead asleep for years ran, like fire through the veins of Cy Norton.
(By God, he thought, it's the best amateur field I ever saw!)
After that hot day, the brownish dirt was dry and powdery. The diamond, the broad sweep of the outfield, gleamed in cropped green. The bases were newly whitewashed. Even the foul lines, newly painted and shining white, ran far into an outfield bounded by a high wooden fence with trees beyond. But it was the feel of it, the thrill of it, the quickening pulse!
Many of the team, in white uniforms with the vertical stripes, were scattered round the field while somebody knocked out practice flies from home plate. There, beside a line of bats near the dugout, stood old Stuffy in a uniform of the Philadelphia Athletics which was thirty-odd years old.
Stuffy, grinning at H.M., did a war dance as well as his rheumatism allowed.
Near him stood Bob Manning, ready to make an introduction. Bob wasn't quite sure how to do this, but on a ball field he felt at home.
"Men of the Maralarch Terrors!'' he shouted, in a voice somewhat between a toastmaster and a radio announcer. "Let me introduce our guest today, who is no other than—Lord Merrivale!"
Cheers and applause tore the air.
Bob, in thus elevating H.M. to the peerage, had only a vague idea that all British titles were much the same or at least interchangeable. When he went on, he told a story which he had now firmly fixed in his mind and believed.
"Lord Merrivale,'' he yelled, whether or not the outfield could hear him, "is a famous cricketer in England. He has never played baseball. But he'd like to hit a few, and show us how to do if
This time the applause was frantic above the cheers.
It was, as Cy knew, only a polite outlet to conceal one blast of laughter. The shortstop, doubled up with mirth, leaned on one knee and waved his glove. What intoxicated these youths, most of whom were much younger than Bob, was the spectacle of an English lord—though this was the oddest-looking English lord they had ever imagined—marching out to make a fool of himself.
Youth being youth, this was only natural. But Cy hated it. He wished the old boy wouldn't insist on making a fool of himself. And yet...
H.M., as usual, was basking in the spotlight In response to the cheers he first bowed, then he lifted both hands above his head and shook hands with himself, like a prize fighter entering the ring.
The Maralarch Terrors were now delirious.
Old Stuffy gave one more hop. On the line of bats near the dugout was a large mouth organ. Stuffy picked it up in some kind of arranged ritual.
"Hank!" he called in his cracked voice. "Stuffy!" thundered the so-called English lord. Then up to Stuffy's lips went the big mouth organ. And out came rolicking the old song.
" Take me out to the ball game, Take me out in the crowd...”
The man must be dead and buriable who can resist that. Cy, himself half-intoxicated, was remembering old days.
The confident feel of dirt rubbed into your hands! The dust and sun dazzle! The hard pads of the catcher's mask against your cheeks! To get the jump on the runner, with a long whip to second which—once or twice!—the second baseman picks off his shoelaces a second ahead of the driving spikes!
"Now what do you want, Hank?" Stuffy was anxiously asking H.M.
"You got a cap? Gimme a cap!"
"But what about your shoes? You ain't got..."
"Never mind the shoes. Just gimme a cap."
Bob, making a megaphone of his hands, was ordering the team into position.
"That's Moose Wilson who's been hitting flies," he told H.M. "Hey, Moose!"
The Moose, a rather older young man who looked as big and clumsy and amiable as his nickname, smiled and threw away the bat.
"Jimmy," called Bob, "you take first base for me. I want to watch this!"
"And so do I," drawled Crystal, amused that there should be so much fuss and excitement. "Really, these Americans!"
"What do you mean, these Americans?" angrily demanded Cy Norton. "Look here, Stuffy, do you mind if I catch?"
"You're kind of slight built for a catcher, Mr. Norton."
"I know that But if s what I always played, and always wanted to play!"
"Shoot" said the old-timer. "I'm a-gonna umpire this, myself."
Cy, who was buckling on chest protector and pads with the help of a stocky grinning catcher, felt as cold and excited as though this were a World Series. He thrust his fingers into the catcher's mitt while his companion tightened the mask. The stuff felt at once lighter and yet more clumsy than it used to feel. He hadn't had a baseball in his hand for more than twenty years. His throws would undoubtedly be wild, his timing bad.
But if this didn't bother H.M., who was old enough to be his father... well, then, he'd stand beside the Old Maestro or bust!
Cy dashed out to the plate. The Maralarch Terrors, still delirious, were trotting past him. He caught one or two voices.
"Tea and cricket, what-what?" chuckled one.
"Most frightfully what, don't-cher-know?" inquired another.
Cy looked after them curiously. Did these young fellows honestly think, as they must, that people in England really talked like that? Or said, Toodle-oo' and 'Pip-pip,' as though an American were nowadays to say, 'Twenty-three-skidoo'?
You couldn't do anything about it, he had found after years of trying. The damned films saw to that And if only H.M. wouldn't insist on making a..’
But H.M., goodly and great behind his stomach, was now marching towards the plate.
On his head the cap was pressed down partly sideways, giving him still more the look of a Bowery tough in the nineties. On his face was a lofty sneer. Carelessly he swung two heavy bats, and let one go as he neared the batter's box. Here he planted his feet, stuck out his behind, and glared at the pitcher.