"It can't be done," he said sagely, "there isn't a section under the law or the regulations governing the force that'd justify me putting the kid out. He ain't hurting anybody anyway."
"But he's putting our man on the pork," cried the Buffalonian disgustedly; "how in the name of Uncle Sam is the team to go on playing with that kind of a racket!"
"It's nothing to the racket there'll be if you don't go on with the game," said the sergeant quietly, as he walked back to the stand. And the game went on. The batter was struck out on the next ball, and the crowd shrieked its delight, the innings closing without a score.
When the eighth innings started, William, all swagger and confidence, started on a new tack. "Fans and fan-esses," he said, addressing the crowd through the megaphone, "why don't you root? Make a noise like you meant it. The Torontos have simply gotter win this game; they need it, but you gotter help 'em. Now then, every-body—ROOT," and "root" they did, arduously, continuously, joyously. The din was terrific, ear-splitting, and weird. Everybody had a different idea as to the best methods of rooting, and even the fanesses made noises of sorts. Nobody thereafter heard what the umpire said, they gathered his decisions only by the result of the various plays, and when, in the ninth and last innings, the Torontos batted out the winning run, one prolonged wild "root" spread the glad tidings to all and sundry outside the gates for many blocks around.
William, with a final yell through the megaphone, hurried back to Walter Wadsworth's stand, and there ran into Whimple and Simmons, who were pledging each other in glasses of lemonade. The boy paused irresolutely.
"William," said Whimple, who was also rather embarrassed, "was it fair?"
William smiled. "Well, Mister Whimple," he said, "when that bunch was here once last season for a series of five games, my Pa took their stuff from the station up to the hotel in one of his express wagons, and I was with him, so, of course, I helped to lift the stuff off the wagon, and when I'm through the same manager what they have this year slips something into my hand and I thought it was a dime, and he says to me, 'I hate to give a Canuck anything,' he says, 'but you are a bright chap, only don't spend it all at once,' and when he goes into the hotel I opens up my hand, and there's one of them dinky little American cents. You bet I was mad, but my Pa says to me, 'It's mostly a long street that don't have cross streets, William,' he says, 'so, keep your hair on.' I did, and I guess me and that Buffalo man are quits now."
CHAPTER XV
One afternoon, a few days afterwards, Whimple, dropping into Tommy Watson's store, found the auctioneer and "Chuck" Epstein gravely examining a doll's carriage and its occupant, a doll eminently respectable in mien and terrifically blue of eye.