If ever I had seen
shadow of pain and shade of death they hovered
darkly around Old Well-Well.
No one accompanied him; no one seemed to
recognize him. The majority of that merry crowd
of boys and men would have jumped up wild with
pleasure to hear his well-remembered yell. Not
much longer than a year before, I had seen ten
thousand fans rise as one man and roar a greeting
to him that shook the stands. So I was
confronted by a situation strikingly calculated to
rouse my curiosity and sympathy.
He found an end seat on a row at about the
middle of the right-field bleachers and I chose
one across the aisle and somewhat behind him.
No players were yet in sight. The stands were
filling up and streams of men were filing into the
aisles of the bleachers and piling over the benches.
Old Well-Well settled himself comfortably in his
seat and gazed about him with animation. There
had come a change to his massive features. The
hard lines had softened; the patches of gray
were no longer visible; his cheeks were ruddy;
something akin to a smile shone on his face as he
looked around, missing no detail of the familiar
scene.
During the practice of the home team Old Well-
Well sat still with his big hands on his knees; but
when the gong rang for the Phillies, he grew restless,
squirming in his seat and half rose several
times.
Pages:
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227