oad
property, and hunted three white stones of fair and flat proportions.

"Here's your bases," he called as he heaved the objects into the yard
with a recklessness which threatened destruction to the turf. "Johnny
was first at bat, wasn't he?"

They took their positions in the order of the numbers which they had
called earlier. Silvey stood behind the home plate, Sid DuPree was in
the pitcher's box, Red played first base, and Skinny Mosher stood near
the fence to cover the outfield, second, and third as best he could. Sid
ground the ball into the heel of his heavily padded mitt, as he had seen
professional pitchers do, bent forward, and threw the ball over Silvey's
head against the back wall of the house. "Ya-ah," taunted John as the
catcher scrambled for the ball. "'Fraid to put 'em near me. 'Fraid to
put 'em near me."

Again a window creaked, and again a maternal voice showed that attention
had been drawn to the "Tigers" latest recreation.

"What _are_ you boys trying to do?" fretfully. "Don't you know this
house has windows in it?"

"Go easy," cautioned Bill in an undertone. "Remember, Sid, you haven't
thrown a ball since last summer. I don't want any 'penny lectures'
'cause you smashed some glass."

Sid drew his arm back for the second time. John leaned forward, caught
the slowly moving ball with the full force of the bat, and tore for
first base.

"Over the fence is out, over the fence is out," came the chorus.
"Silvey's turn next."

The ex-batsman took up the position near the fence in disgust. Skinny
moved forward to the pitcher's box, and Sid replaced Bill as catcher.
The muscles of Skinny's long, thin arms tightened as he grasped the ball
for his first pitch of the season.

Suddenly the subdued afternoon babel of the city was dwarfed by a
humming of factory whistles, some long drawn and of deep bass, others
quicker and higher pitched, rising and dying away in succession as they
were supplanted by the distance-mellowed notes of other establishments
with lagging time clocks. Dismay robbed John's face of the grin of a
moment before.

"Five o'clock," he cried as he threw the baseball glove into the
quickening grass. "Jiminy, kids, and the paper wagon comes at ten of!"

Inquiry at the little dingy-windowed delicatessen and milk depot
confirmed his fears. The cart had arrived on time, and his customers
would expect their news sheets that evening.

What a pest the business was growing to be. It wasn't