TIBERIUS SMITH
outside. We peeped through the narrow opening past our guards, and saw the heathens were playing a crude game of ball. It wasn't handball, nor was it baseball. One tall pest hurled the sphere at a man with a club, and it was the duty of the latter to hit it. When he did, he ran, and whoever got the ball threw it back to the pitcher. I don't know what would have happened if the batter had missed. Tib said they'd eat him. The game reminded me of my youth and two-old-cat, and we couldn't help admiring the dexterity of the batter, who evidently was the chief of the tribe. No matter how swiftly the ball came he would give a jump away from it, or towards it, and bang! 'way down to the bleachers. I remembered that the North American Indians have been given to this form of sport from the time of the white man's first coming, and I suppose it is common to all the tribes below the equator.
"‘Billy,' cried Tib, after we had watched their antics for some time, 'I'm going to make a grandstand play. That rugged sprite of a pitcher ought to be released, or else sent to the bench. Old Cocoa has hit him for nineteen singles and eight home-runs inside of five minutes. I'm going to join the nine and show 'em how our boys can play.'
"‘You throw a ball?' I gasped.
"‘Can I?' and he smiled complacently. 'Why, in the days of straight pitching I pitched a game for
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