und that his voice had come back, and he began to use it with
all his power and most of his courage.

"Peanuts, popcorn, chewing gum, candy, cigars, and tobacco," he shouted
as he walked along the aisles: "here's where you get 'em at the lowest
prices and finest qual-ity."

The responses were becoming readier, but not fast enough, and William
began to use the megaphone. Taking a stand in front of the lowest seat
and addressing the crowd impartially he asked, "Did all you folks leave
your money at home, or ain't you never had any?" Some of the people
laughed, and the emboldened William went on, "Ladies, what's the good
of a ball game without peanuts or chewing gum? I've got a lot of both
to sell," and that resulted in a goodly number of sales. Then he tried
again. "There's lots of fellows here with girls, and it's a shame the
way they're letting the girls suffer for a little candy, or chewing
gum, or peanuts. Make the fellows loosen up, girls!" The crowd
laughed, and William tried in vain to respond to the demands for his
wares from all quarters. His basket was soon emptied, and in a little
while he had disposed of his second load. He sold others, but when the
game had advanced to the sixth innings, with the score still one all,
he found the people almost unresponsive to his appeals, and, returning
to Walter's little store under the grand stand, changed into his street
clothes and rushed back to see the finish of the game, his first
venture as a pedlar having netted him the sum of fifty cents.

The game had reached its critical stage, "the fatal seventh innings,"
when William again made his appearance known. The crowd was painfully
silent, for the Buffaloes, with only one man out, had men on the first
and second bases, and the heaviest hitter of their team at the bat.
The batsman spat on his hands, wiped them off in the dust around the
home plate, and set himself firmly for a swing. The Toronto pitcher
having almost succeeded in tying himself into a bow knot suddenly
unloosened, and sent in a swift drop ball, and even as it sped the
voice of William, well modulated through the megaphone, but quite
distinct, cried out, "Strike one." Strike it was, the batter missing
the sphere by several feet, and following the miss there came in
stentorian tones from the umpire the words, "Strike one."

"Why did you call it a strike before?" yelled the batsman.

"Never opened my mouth," retorted the umpire, and the crowd