But the sportswriter, who wore a comical mustache and dressed in stripes that crisscrossed three ways — suit, shirt, and tie — a nervous man with voracious eyes, also had a sharp sense of smell and despite Sam’s shower and toothbrushing nosed Out an alcoholic fragrance that slowed his usual speedy response in acknowledging the spread of his fame.

“That’s right,” he finally said.

“Well, I’m happy to have the chance to say a few words to you. You’re maybe a little after my time, but I am Sam Simpson — Bub Simpson, that is — who played for the St. Louis Browns in the seasons of 1919 to 1921.”

Sam spoke with a grin though his insides were afry at the mention of his professional baseball career.

“Believe I’ve heard the name,” Mercy said nervously. After a minute he nodded toward the man Sam knew all along as the leading hitter of the American League, three times winner of the Most Valuable Player award, and announced, “This is Walter (the Whammer) Wambold.” It had been in the papers that he was a holdout for $75,000 and was coming East to squeeze it out of his boss.

“Howdy,” Sam said. “You sure look different in street clothes.”

The Whammer, whose yellow hair was slicked flat, with tie and socks to match, grunted.

Sam’s ears reddened. He laughed embarrassedly and then remarked sideways to Mercy that he was traveling with a slambang young pitcher who’d soon be laying them low in the big leagues. “Spoke to you because I thought you might want to know about him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Roy Hobbs.”

“Where’d he play?”

“Well, he’s not exactly been in organized baseball.”

“Where’d he learn to pitch?”

“His daddy taught him years ago — he was once a semipro — and I have been polishin’ him up.”

“Where’s he been pitching?”

“Well, like I said, he’s young, but he certainly mowed them down in the Northwest High School League last year. Thought you might of heard of his eight no-hitters.”