He yawned, arranged his trousers, recovered his hat, and looked at his watch. It was just four o'clock. He felt rather stiff, but the nap had rested him, and so he returned the book to the room with the idea of taking a walk. Swinging his gold-headed cane jauntily, he passed through the Square and made his way toward the river. The breezes would be refreshing, he told himself. But long before he reached the bridge disturbing sounds came to him, borne on the little west wind that blew in his face:
"Ha-a-ar-vard! Ha-a-ar-vard! Ha-a-ar-vard!"
He crossed the bridge, left the river behind and went on. Now from the right, around the corner of the Locker Building, came wild, confused cries:
"That's pitching, old man; that's pitching!" "Now, once more; make him hit it!" "Put it over; you can do it!" "Hai, hai, hai! Now you're off! Down with his arm! On your toes, on your toes!" "_Look out!_ Twenty minutes, Mr. Umpire!" "_He's out at first!_"
Mr. Robinson frowned, but kept on his way. He was back of the stands now. The scene was hidden from the street by a long strip of canvas. He looked about him; the road was deserted hereabouts. He stooped and strove to look under the canvas, but he saw only a pair of sturdy, red-stockinged legs. The cheering became wild and incoherent, and was punctuated with hand-clapping and the stamping of many feet on the boards. Mr. Robinson went on at a faster gait, something of excitement appearing in his face. At the gate a few loiterers stood about. Mr. Robinson approached one of them and asked with elaborate indifference:
"What--ah--what is the score?" "Seven to six in favor of Princeton. They've knocked Miller out of the box."
"Indeed?" Mr. Robinson glanced at his watch. "I--ah--suppose the game is about over?"
"Last of the sixth. There, that's three out. This is the seventh now." From the left somewhere came cheers for Princeton.
"Thank you." Mr. Robinson turned and went on, followed by long, inspiriting "Ha-a-ar-vards!" But the scenery was not attractive and the breeze was no longer cool. He stopped, frowned, and gazed absorbedly at the sidewalk, drawing figures with the end of his cane in the gravel.
"It must be very close," he muttered. Then, after a moment, "Jimmie will be badly disappointed if they're beaten."