"I read that before—that breakfast began," laughed Little Jimmie. "Well, give me Salt Lake Bazoo. It has basheball news, I s'pose."
"Yes, sir," the butcher answered, and his tone grew reverent as he said: "The Giants won. Mr. Mattyson was pitching. Papers, gents, all the latest papers, magazines, periodicals."
Wedgewood extended a languid hand: "What's the latest issue of the London Times?"
"Never heard of it."
Wedgewood almost fainted, and returned to his Baedeker of the United States.
Dr. Temple summoned the lad: "I don't suppose you have the Ypsilanti Eagle?"
The butcher regarded him with pity, and sniffed: "I carry newspapers, not poultry."
"Well, give me the——" he saw a pink weekly of rather picturesque appearance, and the adventure attracted him. "I'll take this—also the Outlook." He folded the pink within the green, and entered into a new and startling world—a sort of journalistic slumming tour.
"Give me any old thing," said Mallory, and flung open an Ogden journal till he found the sporting page, where his eyes brightened. "By jove, a ten-inning game! Matthewson in the box!"
"Mattie is most intelleckshal pitcher in the world," said Little Jimmie, and then everybody disappeared behind paper ramparts, while the butcher lingered to explain to the porter the details of the great event.