“I might as well stay awhile,” he replied. “Where do you pay?”
“You needn’t pay, sir. We’re glad to have you see the game.”
“I prefer to pay,” was the reply as Mr. Brent followed Gordon toward the stand. “Here, son!” He had caught sight of Tim Turner at the ticket gate and walked across to him. “What’s the price?”
“T-Twenty-five cents, sir,” stammered Tim.
Mr. Brent found two dimes and a nickel among his change, handed them to the awed Tim and went on. “Where’s Morris?” he asked. “I’ll sit with him a few minutes.”
Gordon didn’t know where Morris was, but he called to Dick and Dick pointed him out. Then Gordon piloted Mr. Brent up the stand and by dint of much moving and shoving a place was made for him and Gordon, muttering his thanks again and getting a non-committal nod from Mr. Brent, took himself off.
“I’m so glad, papa,” said Louise gratefully. “It would have been horrid if they couldn’t have played the game, wouldn’t it?”
“Would it?” Mr. Brent smiled and settled his cane between his knees. “Who are those young fellows out there, Morris?”
“Those are the Lesterville players, sir. They’re warming up for the game.”
“Warming up, eh? Then the game hasn’t begun yet?”
“No, sir. They’re coming in now, though. It will start in a minute.”
“Need all this room for a game of ball, do they?”
“Why, of course, papa,” replied Louise. “Sometimes they hit the ball way over by the further fence there!”
Perhaps a liking for baseball is latent in every American. Otherwise how explain the fact that Mr. Jonathan Brent, who, on his own showing, had never witnessed a game before in his life, watched that one with very evident interest? It was, of course, quite incomprehensible to him at first and both Morris and Louise had to do a lot of patient explaining. But by the end of the second inning their father had a very fair notion of what was going on, although he still was puzzled by many of the incidents. As when a Lesterville player tried to reach second after Will Scott had captured a foul behind third base and was thrown out by a scant foot. If it was a foul, argued Mr. Brent, that fellow on first shouldn’t have left his base. No sooner was that explained—by Morris, since Louise’s knowledge of baseball wasn’t sufficient for the task—than Tom Haley was unfortunate enough to hit the Lesterville right fielder on the elbow. The umpire waved the squirming, dancing batter to first and Mr. Brent exclaimed: “Now, what’s that for, Morris? He didn’t hit the ball, did he?”