“We” had promised that “we” would be there, ready to play, at two o’clock, and “they” had solemnly vowed that “they” would be as prompt. Tuesday’s dinner you gulped and gobbled; in those days your stomach was patient and charitable almost beyond belief in this degenerate present. It was imperative that you be at Carey’s lot immediately, and despite the imploring objections of the family to your reckless haste, you bolted out; and as you went you drew upon your left hand an old fingerless kid glove, which was of some peculiar service in your center-field duties.
RED CONROY
Your uniform had been put on upon arising that morning. You always wore it nowadays except when in bed or on Sundays. It was your toga of the purple border, and the bat that you carried from early to late, in your peregrinations, was your scepter mace.
At your unearthly yodel, from next door rushed out your crony, Hen Schmidt, and joined you; and upon your way to the vacant lot you picked up Billy Lunt and Chub Thornbury.
The four of you succeeded in all talking at once: the Second-streets were great big fellows; their pitcher was Doc Kennedy and it wasn’t fair, because he threw as hard as he could, and he was nearly sixteen; Hop Hopkins said he’d be “empire”; Red Conroy was going to play, and he always was wanting to fight; darn it—if Fat only wouldn’t pitch, but let somebody else do it! Bob Leslie could throw an awful big “in,” etc.
The fateful lot dawned upon the right, around the corner of an alley fence. Hurrah, there they are! You see Nixie and Tom Kemp, and Hod O’Shea, and Bob Leslie, and Spunk, and Screw Major, and Ted Watson, and Slim Harding, and the redoubtable Red Conroy (engaged in bullying a smaller boy), and others who must be the remainder of the Second-streets.
OLLIE HANSEN
“Hello, kids,” you say, and likewise say your three companions; and with bat trailing you stalk with free and easy dignity into the crowd.