“I—ah—I was detained,” replied Mr. Robinson. He realized that the boy held him in some contempt, and knew that it would never do to tell the whole truth about it; the other would simply look upon him as a lunatic. Clearly, too, he owed his acquaintance an apology. “I am sorry that I didn’t get here sooner,” he said, “so that you could have seen—ah—more of the contest.”
“So’m I,” was the frank response. Then, “Still, maybe if you’d come before you wouldn’t have taken me in with you?”
“That’s true; maybe I wouldn’t have—ah—noticed you. So perhaps it’s just as well, eh?”
“Yep. Hi-i-i!”
Mr. Robinson gave attention to the game in time to see the second Princeton batter thrown out at first. The stands subsided again, and the ushers waved their hats and the cheering broke out afresh.
“Supposing you tell me who some of the men are,” suggested Mr. Robinson.
“Sure thing. That’s Hanlon pitching. He’s pretty good, but he ain’t as good as Miller, they say. I guess ‘Mill’ must have had an off day. And that’s Morton catching. Say, he’s a peach!”
“Indeed?”
“You bet; a regular top-of-the-basket peacherina! You just keep your eye on him.”
“Thank you, I will,” answered the listener. “And the small fellow at first base?”