But down the alley legged Red, and disappeared over a fence. Evidently he had “got it.”
“Wait till I catch him!” promised Fat, in deep, wrathful tones.
You ought to have been very tired that evening at the supper-table, but you were not, for in those days you never were tired, save momentarily. However, you still were green and brown in spots that your hurried washing had not touched, and dusty in other sections that your equally hurried brushing had omitted. Your face was as red as a setting sun, and you were full of experiences—a fulness that did not in the slightest impair your appetite.
“Who beat?” had inquired mother, as you had come trudging in.
“We only played four innin’s, and they were fifty and we were thirty-one, and then Red Conroy stole the ball,” you explained.
“Well, who beat?” asked father, at the table.
“Nobody did,” you stated, this solution having occurred to you. “We didn’t finish, ’cause Red Conroy he ran off with the ball.”
“But what was the score when this happened?” pursued father.
“Fifty to thirty-one—but it was only four innings,” you answered, with a wriggle.