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Updated: June 4, 2025
I could not have been mistaken. He was Old Well-Well, famous from Boston to Baltimore as the greatest baseball fan in the East. His singular yell had pealed into the ears of five hundred thousand worshippers of the national game and would never be forgotten. At sight of him I recalled a friend's baseball talk. "You remember Old Well-Well? He's all in dying, poor old fellow!
The umpire made his sweeping wave of hand and the breathless crowd caught his decision. "Out!" In action and sound the circle of bleachers resembled a long curved beach with a mounting breaker thundering turbulently high. "Rob b ber r!" bawled the outraged fans, betraying their marvelous inconsistency. Old Well-Well breathed hard. Again the wrestling of his body signified an inward strife.
In the bleak dead pause of amazed disappointment Old Well-Well lifted his hulking figure and loomed, towered over the bleachers. His wide shoulders spread, his broad chest expanded, his breath whistled as he drew it in. One fleeting instant his transfigured face shone with a glorious light.
"Oh, I hate to take this money!" "All-l o-over!" Two men at least of all that vast assemblage had not given up victory for Philadelphia. I had not dared to look at Old Well-Well for a long, while. I dreaded the nest portentious moment. I felt deep within me something like clairvoyant force, an intangible belief fostered by hope.
"Well, all's well that ends well," said Mamma placidly, as she secretly returned thanks that her daughters were not as others. But later, far into the night, Damaris stood at her window, with her arms round the bulldog's neck. "You're the only one who really loves me, Well-Well. Everybody else run away and leaves me. I'm I'm, so unhappy!"
Burt had stopped statue-like as if stricken in his tracks; then he came running, darting among the spectators who had leaped the fence. Old Well-Well stood a moment with slow glance lingering on the tumult of emptying bleachers, on the moving mingling colors in the grand stand, across the green field to the gray-clad players. He staggered forward and fell.
He walked slowly, leaning hard on a cane and his wide shoulders sagged as he puffed along. I was about to make some pleasant remark concerning the prospects of a fine game, when the sight of his face shocked me and I drew back. If ever I had seen shadow of pain and shade of death they hovered darkly around Old Well-Well. No one accompanied him; no one seemed to recognize him.
A beautiful young lady, richly attired, had been sitting alone in the elegant apartment described when a man of dark complexion entered the room, and, with silent step and a pleased smile upon his dark face, he advanced toward the girl. Just a moment preceding the entrance of the dark-faced man, the girl had indulged in a brief soliloquy. She murmured: "Well-well, my mind is made up.
Man religious and tidy is Essec." Then she prayed that Joseph would die before her fault was found out. Joseph did not know what to do for his joy. "Well-well, there's better I am already," he said. He walked over the land and coveted the land of his neighbors. "Dwell here for ever I shall," he cried to Madlen. "A grand house I'll build almost as grand as the houses of preachers."
It had always been out of the question, but he'd realized that tardily. But they'd have it out. There could be no better time. "No?" he drawled. "No?" Sarcasm lent his words a sing-song quality. "No? Not Dunham's man? Not mine? Well-well! Ha-ha!" And then, savagely: "So that's it! It's true, heh?
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