, then when you
miss my bat with the ball, as you may sometimes do, for you do not yet
know how to pitch accurately, the barn will prevent the ball from going
too far."

"That's the back-stop," said Rollo.

"Do not try to be funny, my son," replied his father, "in this great
republic only a President of the United States is permitted to coin
phrases which nobody can understand. Now, observe me; when you are at
bat you stand in this manner."

And Mr. Holliday assumed the attitude of a timid man who has just
stepped on the tail of a strange and irascible dog, and is holding his
legs so that the animal, if he can pull his tail out, can escape without
biting either of them. He then held the bat up before his face as though
he was carrying a banner.

"Now, Rollo, you must pitch the ball directly toward the end of my bat.
Do not pitch too hard at first, or you will tire yourself out before we
begin."

Rollo held the ball in his hands and gazed at it thoughtfully for a
moment; he turned and looked at the kitchen windows as though he had
half a mind to break one of them; then wheeling suddenly he sent the
ball whizzing through the air like a bullet. It passed so close to Mr.
Holliday's face that he dropped the bat and his grammar in his
nervousness and shouted:

"Whata you throw nat? That's no way to pitch a ball! Pitch it as though
you were playing a gentleman's game; not as though you were trying to
kill a cat! Now, pitch it right here; right at this place on my bat. And
pitch more gently; the first thing you know you'll sprain your wrist and
have to go to bed. Now, try again."

This time Rollo kneaded the ball gently, as though he suspected it had
been pulled before it was ripe. He made an offer as though he would
throw it to Thanny. Thanny made a rush back to an imaginary "first," and
Rollo, turning quickly, fired the ball in the general direction of Mr.
Holliday. It passed about ten feet to his right, but none the less he
made what Thanny called "a swipe" at it that turned him around three
times before he could steady himself. It then hit the end of the barn
with a resounding crash that made Cotton Mather, the horse, snort with
terror in his lonely stall. Thanny called out in nasal, sing-song tone:

"Strike--one!"

"Thanny," said his father, severely, "do not let me hear a repetition of
such language from you. If you wish to join our game, you may do so, if
you will play in a gentlemanly manner. But I will not