you introduced me to?” says Crosby.
“Sure!” says Martin. “Mary Lloyd, the telegraph operator.”
“Do you think she’d like me?” ast the kid.
“Well,” Joe told him, “she ast to meet you, and she certainly was broke up the way you treated her.”
“But what kind of a girl is she?” he says. “She ain’t too soft?”
“I never caught her at it,” says Joe.
“But she’s probably sore at me,” says Crosby.
“You can apologize to her,” says Martin.
“But we won’t be in Detroit for ten days,” says the kid.
“Write her a letter,” says Joe.
“I don’t like to write letters,” Crosby says. “Joe, will you write her a letter for me?”
“That’d make her sorer than ever,” says Martin. “Besides, I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to pull off.”
“I’m on the square,” says the kid. “If she’ll marry me—why, I’ll take her.”
“That’s damn sweet o’ you!” says Joe. “But what’s your idear in gettin’ married?”
“Never mind, Joe,” says the kid. “I just feel like I want to.”
“Well,” says Joe, “if you want to square it with Mary, and you don’t feel like writin’ to her, why not send her a night letter?”
“What’s that?” says Crosby.
“It’s a telegram that goes at night, and you can say about fifty words for fifty cents,” Joe told him.
“But I don’t know no fifty words to say,” says the poor kid.
To make it short, Joe done it for him, either because he was sorry for the kid or because he thought it was a joke or because he ain’t none too good friends with Harry Childs. The telegram said that the kid was sorry he’d froze her, that he’d been feelin’ tough that afternoon, that he apologized, and would she please forgive him, because he thought a whole lot of her.
The answer come next day, at noon. Mary wired that she’d pay more attention to him if he said all that to her face.
VIII
Harry Childs’ lucky spell ended when we stopped over for a game in Cleveland on the way home. He changed his mind at the last minute about makin’ a slide to the plate, and they carried him off with a busted leg.
So Harry Childs didn’t make the last trip to Detroit.
Young Mr. Crosby did, though he was so scared leavin’ Chi that I and Gil and Martin was afraid he’d throw himself offen the train in the night.
The three of us talked it all over.
“He’ll fall down, sure!” says Gil. “She’ll give him an unmerciful pannin’ and he’ll faint dead away.”
“But suppose he don’t,” I says. “Suppose he goes through with it and wins. Are we bein’ fair to Harry?”
“Why not?” says Martin. “Childs played jokes on him all season. It’s pretty near time the kid got back.”
“I’m for helpin’ him,” says Gilbert.
“Me too,” says Joe.
“All right; you’re on!” I says; and we begin discussin’ how to go about it.
We finally fixed it up that we’d get a taxi to come to the hotel at Mary’s lunchtime. Then we’d coax ’em into it and slam the doors, and tell the driver to break all the laws o’ Michigan.
Because, as Joe said, if we put ’em together where Crosby could get away, he’d get away sure!
They’s nothin’ more to it. They were back from their ride at one o’clock, both o’ them as red as an open switch. But the smile Mary give us was an inch or so wider than we ever got before.
Crosby come blushin’ acrost the lobby.
“Well?” we says.
“Well, boys,” he says, “it wasn’t bad.”
“What do you mean—wasn’t bad?” says Martin.
“Her,” says the kid.
“Not half as bad as one o’ them German centipede guns,” says I.
“Not half!” says Crosby.
I suppose by this time she’s got him through the First Reader.
The Last Night
Jay Arnold, being a resident of Chicago and not stone deaf, knew there was a war somewhere in Europe. He had heard also that the United States had gone or was going into it. But until the twenty-ninth day of June, this year of so-called grace, he didn’t care. For Mr. Arnold was a man of simple tastes—rye and water all morning, a seat in the bleachers all afternoon, rye and water all evening and then eight or nine hours of melodious sleep—and the tumult Over There had not interfered a bit with his daily program of innocent pleasure.
The gentleman’s reading was confined to the sporting pages of the morning papers and “Today’s Results” in the evening sheets. It was simply tough luck that he had to sit, on his way gameward this blizzardy June day, beside one of those born genials to whom proximity is a formal introduction and an excuse for opening up.
“Looks,” said this fluent soul, “like as if we’d soon be bone dry.”
“Oh, I guess not for ten or a dozen years,” said Mr. Arnold.
“Years, nothing!” the other ejaculated. “It’s liable to be all off tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Arnold scrutinized the stranger. He looked sober.
“Where do you get that stuff!” said Mr. Arnold.
“In the morning paper. I seen an article this morning where the fella says Wilson’s to have the whole say and if he says dry, dry she is.”
“What fella says that?” asked Mr. Arnold.
“He signed his name, but I forget it,” replied our hero’s seat-mate. “It’s the fella that writes the articles from Washington, DC.”
“They wasn’t no game in Washington yesterday!” And Mr. Arnold smiled triumphantly.
“This ain’t got nothing to do with a game,” said the other. “This guy ain’t the baseball-article writer. He pulls the stuff about Wilson and the Senate and Congress—deep stuff.”
“Those fellas are crazy,” Said Mr. Arnold. “Besides, you probably misread it wrong.”
“I guess I can read!” said his companion peevishly.
“But listen,” said Mr. Arnold: “The President of the United States ain’t the king of the world. He can’t vote the country dry without Congress and the people having their say.”
“He can in war-times. He can do anything he feels like in war-times.”
“What’s the war got to do with the liquor business?”
“A whole lot! And Wilson’s
