When You Were a Boy

by Edwin L. Sabin

“Shut up yourself!” hotly bade Billy. “You aren’t runnin’ the game. Can he, Hop?”

“I dunno!” confessed Umpire Hop, digging with his toe at a mound of dirt.

“Ya-a-a-a-ah!” sneered Red at the discomfited Billy.

“Well, he can’t just the samee!” resolved Captain Fat. “It’s my ball.”

“Just the samee, he can!” contradicted Captain Spunk. “It’s my father’s lot.”

“Lost ball! Lo-o-ost ba-a-all!” you and Nixie and Tom had been calling as unceasingly as the tolling of a bell; and continuing the discussion, which abated never, the members of both nines, and the spectators, who also were the score-keepers, scattered over the ground to assist in the search.

It seemed that no effort or artifice, even to lying down and rolling where the weeds were thick, could bring to light that ball, until suddenly piped little Jamie Watson:

“Red Conroy’s runnin’ off!”

“He’s got it, I bet you! Hey! Stop, thief!” hailed Tom, quickly.

“Drop that ball! Stop, thief!” swelled the chorus.