“Class D is as far down as I go,” Mercy laughed. He lit one of the cigars Sam had been looking at in his breast pocket.

“I’m personally taking him to Clarence Mulligan of the Cubs for a tryout. They will probably pay me a few grand for uncovering the coming pitcher of the century but the condition is — and Roy is backing me on this because he is more devoted to me than a son — that I am to go back as a regular scout, like I was in 1925.”

Roy popped his head into the car and searched around for the girl with the black hat box (Miss Harriet Bird, Eddie had gratuitously told him, making a black fluttering of wings), and seeing her seated near the card tables restlessly thumbing through a magazine, popped out.

“That’s him,” said Sam. “Wait’ll I bring him back.” He got up and chased after Roy.

“Who’s the gabber?” said the Whammer.

“Guy named Simpson who once caught for the Brownies. Funny thing, last night I was doing a Sunday piece on drunks in baseball and I had occasion to look up his record. He was in the game three years, batted.340, 260, and.198, but his catching was terrific — not one error listed.”

“Get rid of him, he jaws too much.”

“Sh, here he comes.”

Sam returned with Roy in tow, gazing uncomfortably ahead.

“Max,” said Sam, “this is Roy Hobbs that I mentioned to you. Say hello to Max Mercy, the syndicated sportswriter, kiddo.”

“Hello,” Roy nodded.

“This is the Whammer,” Max said.

Roy extended his hand but the Whammer looked through him with no expression whatsoever. Seeing he had his eye hooked on Harriet, Roy conceived a Strong dislike for the guy.

The Whammer got up. “Come on, Max, I wanna play cards.”

Max rose. “Well, hang onto the water wagon, Bub,” he said to Sam.

Sam turned red.