“Two tickets, please.”
Mr. Robinson strode through the gate followed by a freckle-faced, rather tattered youth of sixteen, and sought a seat.
“You come along with me,” he said to the boy. “I may want to know who some of these fellows are.”
Seats were hard to find, but in the end they obtained them on a stand back of third base. Mr. Robinson settled his stick between his knees and looked about him. The triangle of stands was crowded with excited men and women; men in straw hats and all sorts of vivid shirts, women in cool cotton dresses, with here and there a touch of crimson ribbon. The field stretched away green and level as a carpeted floor to the river and the boathouse. Princeton was at the bat. Mr. Robinson turned to his new acquaintance.
“Seven to six, you said?” The boy glanced at the little black score-board.
“Yes, sir, that’s right. See? Harvard made three in the first and two in the third and one in the fifth, and Princeton made three in the third and four in the fifth. That’s when they didn’t do a thing to Miller. Gee, I could hear ’em hittin’ him outside there! I’d like to been inside then, wouldn’t you?”
“Hm, yes,” replied Mr. Robinson.
“Say, what made you so late?” asked the other with a suspicion of a grievance in his voice. “Gee, if I’d been going to this game I bet you I’d been on time!”