"Good catch, kiddo."
"Oh, you Charley-boy, who was you pitching for last season?"
"The Reds, because that's your color."
"Say, if you're going to catch that four-eighteen you've got to break somebody's speed limit between here and track ten. Run along, Charley-boy, and Merry Christmas."
But Mr. Charles Scully swung to a halt, poured his armful of packages into a wire basket of six-city-postcard-views for ten cents, swung open his overcoat with a sprinkling of snow on its slick-napped velvet collar, lifted his small black mustache in a smile.
"Black-eyes, I'd miss three trains for you."
"There's not another until the four-forty."
"I should worry. Anyway, for all I know you've changed your mind and are coming out with me to-night, little one."
The quick blood ran up into her small face, dyeing it, and she withdrew from his nearing features.
"I have not! Gee! you're about as square as a doughnut, you are."