Next morning Johnny wandered over to the Sentinel office. He wanted to thank the editor for the fine publicity he had given the game. More than this he always had enjoyed a half hour in the box-like office of C. K. Lovell, or “old C. K.” as the people of the city had come to call him.
C. K. was something of a character. More than six feet tall, a broad-shouldered, slouching figure of a man, with masses of gray hair and bushy eyebrows, slumped down in his office chair, he resembled a shaggy St. Bernard dog basking in the sun.
“H’llo Johnny!” he greeted. “Fine game yesterday. Sort of queer, though. Rather unusual about that pitcher! And did you notice that airplane? What did you make of that?”
“Haven’t got it made yet.” Johnny dropped into a chair. “Tough about that pitcher though. It must not happen again.
“But say!” he enthused. “Wasn’t that a grand crowd! Boys owe you a lot.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” the editor laughed good-naturedly. “Boys deserved it. Fine lot of boys. Be a bigger crowd than ever next week. What about that electric umpire? Think it will work?”
“Sure will.”
“Call strikes and balls, and all that?”
“Sure will, C. K.”
“Dodge pop bottles too?” C. K. laughed.