“Mother, is father back from Philadelphia yet?” he asked, as he hung up his cap and slipped into the sink pantry to wash his hands.
“Not yet, Frank,” answered Mrs. Hardy.
“He must have quite some business to attend to, to stay away so late. I thought I was late myself.”
“You are late, Frank—it is quarter after six. I expected your father in on the half-past five train, but he must have missed that.”
“Then he won’t be here until nearly eight o’clock. Must I wait for my supper?”
“No; we can have our supper directly. I know you must be hungry.”
“I am, mother. Baseball gives a fellow an appetite, especially if he runs bases and plays in the field, as I did. We played the Hopeville Stars and beat them 12 to 7. I made three runs.”
“You must certainly love the game?”
“I do. Sometimes I wish I could be a professional ball player.”
“I shouldn’t wish you to be that, Frank. I want you to go to college and be a professional man,” added Mrs. Hardy, with a fond smile.