Above the riot of sound arose that despairing command. The ball thumped against the catcher’s mit and his arm swung swiftly outward and downward. But it didn’t hit the runner. He was sprawling face down above the plate in a cloud of brown dust. Jimmie had slid.
“Safe!” cried the umpire.
Two hours later the Hero and his father were at dinner in a Boston hotel. Mr. Robinson dropped a crumb into his empty soup-plate and smiled across the table in the manner of one well pleased with the world.
“I haven’t seen a game of baseball like that, Jimmie,” he said, “since we won the class championship back in ’73.” He looked reminiscent for a moment; then asked suddenly: “By the way, didn’t you say they’d make you captain again next year?”
“They will, if I’ll take it, sir.”
“If you’ll take it! What’s to prevent your taking it? Don’t be a fool, Jimmie!”
The Hero applied his napkin to his lips to hide a smile.
“Very well, sir,” he replied, gravely, “I won’t.”