crowded in the room shifting into their alpacas or pulling black sleeve guards up over their elbows to save wear and tear.
"Thought you'd be up at the game, Speedy," bantered one of them.
"Hasn't Manager Huggins sent for you to advise Babe and the boys what to do yet, Speedy?" asked another.
The remarks were good-natured. They liked Speedy despite his newness among them. But his predilection for baseball was already well known around the office and a topic for kidding. Speedy only grinned. He transferred his well-worn newspaper to his working coat and walked out into the office. He mounted the high stool and opened in front of him the huge book into which he was recording shipments of steel. He dipped his pen into the ink.
But his mind was elsewhere. After a moment's hesitation he pulled the newspaper out of his pocket and spread it carefully out on the ledger. Soon he was deeply engrossed in re-reading the account of the New York baseball teams' chances against Detroit. He finished the story. His mind was out of the office, up there at the Yankee Stadium. He was sitting in the right field bleachers, haunt of the Babe Ruth worshippers, located behind the patch of field patrolled by the famous slugger. Speedy always sat there when he went to see the Yankees play, both for reasons of economy and because Babe was his idol.
In his imagination he was ensconced there now.
