“But he shoved me! He shoved me off the base!” you shrieked.
“Who shoved yer? I didn’t, neither! G’wan! Yer out; don’t you hear the empire?” snarled back Red.
“You did, too!” you asserted.
“He did, too! No fair! He shoved him like everything!” vociferated all the North Stars and their supporters.
“You’re out! You’re out!” gibed the Second-streets, from catcher to farthest fielder.
“Out!” majestically pronounced the umpire again.
Slowly, obedient to the higher authority represented in the freckled-faced Hoptoad, you walked down the base-line. In some way, apparently, you had disgraced your blue star, begrimed from your manful slide, for “Why did you let him touch you?” accused your comrades.
The idea! How could you help it, you’d like to know.
It was the first half of the fifth inning. The score, according to the notches on the sticks, was fifty to thirty-one, in favor of the Second-streets. Those spectators who had exercised the forethought to start with long sticks were in clover, while those with short sticks were having hard work to find space for all the runs.