the Yanks' powerful sluggers, settling the struggle once and for all with one of their accustomed home runs at Yankee Stadium that sunny September afternoon.
Having finished the leading baseball news, he turned to the other items about the national game on the sporting page. He carefully studied the batting average of both leagues, though he already knew them nearly by heart.
At the tables around him other lunchers were also reading papers. But their interest was chiefly in financial sections, as befitted their occupations. A pale broker's clerk, chewing a toothpick, opposite Harold was engrossed in the account of how the New York Inter-City Railways Company, in the effort to consolidate its far-flung system, would probably seek to acquire the last remaining crosstown horse car line and replace it with electricity. He checked the market quotation of Inter-City stock and resolved to risk a month's wages in acquiring some on margin.
Harold was a Wall Street clerk too. But his passion was baseball. Possessed of a lively imagination, he could even now envisage the multitudes pouring through the turnstiles up at the Yankee Stadium. The rival teams would be taking the field about now for their practice rounds. Babe Ruth would pole a preliminary few over the fence to humble the hopes of the Detroit cohorts in advance.
"Hey, watcher self!" came a sharp voice from Speedy's right. Speedy had been unconsciously imitating the swing of the mighty Babe with his rolled
