"Look here," I said irritably. "Mr. McEwen appointed me manager for to-night. Not you. So if you will please—"
My words stopped again. Not because Mrs. Noonan wasn't listening. This time my words stopped because, a trifle late but nevertheless unmistakably, I had caught the echo of that something new in Mrs. Noonan's voice. I had heard it before, in different parts of the world, from different kinds of people. It was the echo of a never-ending miracle, the miracle of creation. Or, at any rate, rearrangement.
MRS. NOONAN TAKES COMMAND
This woman, who for almost two months had been a crusader interested in nothing but an abstract notion about the rights of the individual, had suddenly taken on the dimensions of a leader concerned primarily with the larger welfare of the group or team. When the necessity for taking command of something presented itself, she quite obviously wasted no time and took command.
There was, of course, one infallible test. I did not see why, since it was a moment of crisis, Mrs. Noonan should not be put to it.
"How about your three sons?" I said casually. They were very nice boys, but no one would ever mistake them for Tinker, Evers and Chance. "What positions do you want Tom and Sam and Edwin to play?"
Her reply was not only a vindication of my hearing. It was a yardstick by which even Casey Stengel might be proud to have himself measured.
"They did enough playing all season," Mrs. Noonan said. "It won't hurt my sons to sit one out for a change," she said through a determined scowl. "We want to win this game."
And we did.