They all rose at this. Truly, modern electrical inventions widen the maternal scope of authority.
"Shucks!" said Skinny, as he brushed some dead grass from his coat. "Now she's spoiled it all. What'll we do?"
John tossed his battered cap high in the air in a sudden access of spirits. "One for scrub," he shouted. "First raps for the first game of scrub. Go home and get your league ball and bat, Sid. I'll bring my first baseman's glove. Silvey'll find his catcher's mitt. Beat you home! Beat you home!"
They were off. Down the cement sidewalk they darted, their quick breaths showing ever so slightly in the crisp air. John stamped up the steps and into the front hall.
"Mother!" he called. "Mother!"
"Yes, son?" came the voice from the big second floor sewing room.
"Where's my baseball glove?" He kicked against the bottom step of the stairway impatiently.
"Did you wipe your feet when you came in?" came the disconcerting inquiry. "I don't want the carpets all over mud."
"Y-yes."
"Go back and wipe them right away. Then come up and tell me what you want."