The sun was not so high as when the game began, neither were your spirits. Much excited chasing, and much strenuous yelling, had told upon you. Your face was streaked; your hair was in dank disorder; your blue star flapped, and your waistband sagged behind, mourning for departed buttons. You were what mothers style “a perfect sight.”
The air had been rent by incessant wranglings. Tom Kemp and Screw Major had indulged in a brief rough-and-tumble, because Screw had thought that Tom had purposely trodden upon his sore toe, Screw injudiciously being barefoot.
Every member of the North Stars had committed egregious errors, and had been tartly excoriated by all hands. You yourself had muffed, and had thrown the ball seven ways for Sunday.
Fat was still doggedly clinging to pitch, and Doc was throwing swift. The two little girls, once your admirers, had gone away in disgust. And the score, as remarked above, was fifty to thirty-one.
Tug McCormack it was who picked out one of Fat’s wonderful twisters and batted it over your head. After it you raced, deliriously discarding, of course, your sadly abused cap, that you might gain in speed. Behind you bellowed friends and enemies, and around the bases was pelting Tug.
Where was the ball—oh, where was it! It must have struck a can or stick, and bounded crooked.
“Hurry! Hurry!” exhorted the Second-streets to Tug.
“Home! Home! Home with it!” exhorted the North Stars to you.
“Pick it up now and look for it afterward!” yelled second base.
“What’s the matter with you? It’s right there!” yelled Captain Fat.