“And just think what it will be when the World’s Series comes along in the fall!” chuckled Jimmy. “We’ll take in every game without going out of Clintonia.”
“That is, if it’s played in the East,” put in Herb. “It may not be so easy if it’s played in the West.”
“It doesn’t matter where it’s played,” rejoined Jimmy. “By the time fall comes, we’ll probably have improved our radio set so that we can listen in on Chicago just as easily as we have to-day on Newark. And, anyway, the results will be sent to the Newark station so that it can be broadcasted all over the East. We’ll take them all in, never you fear, and we won’t have to pay a fortune to speculators for the tickets either. But what is that I smell?” he broke off suddenly, sniffing the air that had become laden with savory odors.
“See his nose twitch,” gibed Joe. “Trust him to forget baseball or anything else when doughnuts are around.”
“Doughnuts!” exclaimed Jimmy, an expression of cherubic bliss coming on his face. “Can it be? Yes, there can be no mistake. It must be—it is—doughnuts!”
“Right the first time,” laughed Bob. “I didn’t want to say anything about it while the game was on, but Mother gave me a tip that she’d start making them so that we could have them fresh and hot by the time we were through. So come ahead downstairs, fellows, and if any of you get away without having your fill of about the niftiest doughnuts ever made, it will be your own fault.”
There was no need of a second invitation, and the boys, with Jimmy in the van, hurried downstairs where several big dishes heaped high with crisp, delicious doughnuts awaited them. They fell to at once, and the table was swept clear as though by magic.
“That puts the finishing touch on a perfect day,” sighed Jimmy, with perfect content.
“Right you are,” agreed Joe. “And say, fellows, wasn’t that a peach of a game?”