MacPhail stopped and stared at me. "I've just been reading here," I said, gesturing with my notebook, "about the incident."
"I didn't run out on the field that day," said MacPhail slowly. "I went directly to the clubhouse to see how badly Medwick was hurt."
"That must have been afterward," I said nervously, holding up my note-book, "because I copied it out of the papers."
"I don't care what you copied out of the papers," said MacPhail, his voice rising a little. "I didn't go out on the field."
The New York Times
New York Herald Tribune
both say so," I protested. "And on top of that, two magazines also describe—"
"I was never," roared MacPhail, shaking the carrots under my nose, "never on a ball field during the progress of a game in my life! Is that definite enough?"
Drawing back a trifle, I said, "Certainly. That's definite enough for me."
MacPhail grabbed my arm. "Come on down to the stallion barn. I want to show you something."
As we walked along, I tried to weigh MacPhail's reputation for veracity (testified to by all his friends) against the clear-cut testimony of eyewitnesses. Giving all parties the best of it, I decided that what had "happened was this: the situation on the ball field when Medwick was beaned so cried out for MacPhail that the sportswriters had been the victims of a hallucination which also had afflicted the crowds in the stands with a kind of mass hypnosis. It was that—or MacPhail had subconsciously erased the memory.
"What I'll do when we get to the stallion barn," said MacPhail, chuckling in anticipation, "is start feeding these carrots to Sea Charger. Then you just watch General Staff."