TIBERIUS SMITH
ed his club on the ground and called out to his men. Instantly two rushed Tib down the field in front of the grinning base and gave him the ball, while the others stood on the side-lines with arrows drawn to the head on their long bows. Tib, with his back towards me, was now standing directly in front of me, and, without turning his head, cried out: 'Maybe it's good-bye, Billy. The scalawags mean to shoot if I let Othello hit it.'
"In a flash I realized the meaning of the ready bowmen. Hiawatha was enraged at Tib's presumption and was going to have him punctured the minute the first hit was made. It was grewsome, I tell you. There was the old devil, gnashing his teeth and tapping the grisly skull in an ecstasy of impatience to smash the ball. There were the bowmen, all anxious to get the first chance at the pitcher. There was the old lady with the big knife, scurrying around, brightening up the fire, and singing a cheery carol, happy at the prospects of having a stranger for supper. And last, there was Tib, short and comfortable, peeled down to his underwear, posed on one toe, carefully examining the ball.
"And do you know those savages cured me of all liking for the sport. I never pass a vacant lot and see the kids tossing ball but what I shiver, and yet in my knickerbocker days I was fond of the game. But here was a time when a hit meant two lives and
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