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.
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