We were discussing the final series for the
championship, and my friend was estimating his chances of again pitching
the Giants to the top, when a sudden jam on the avenue left us an
instant looking face to face at a woman and a child seated in a
luxurious victoria.
Larry Moore, who had hold of my arm, dropped it quickly and wavered in
his walk. The woman caught her breath and put her muff hastily to her
face; but the child saw us without surprise. All had passed within a
second, yet I retained a vivid impression of a woman of strange
attraction, elegant and indolent, with something in her face which left
me desirous of seeing it again, and of a pretty child who seemed a
little too serious for that happy age. Larry Moore forgot what he had
begun to say. He spoke no further word, and I, in glancing at his face,
comprehended that, incredible as it seemed, there was some bond between
the woman I had seen and this raw-boned, big-framed, and big-hearted
idol of the bleachers.
Without comment I followed Larry Moore, serving his mood as he
immediately left the avenue and went east.
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