headed for the game, for both hurried over toward the entrance to the grounds. Speedy began furiously to force himself into the midst of the throng again.
At the ticket office window, which he reached after what seemed an age, he tendered Babe Ruth's ten-dollar bill, most of which was rightfully his, for a ticket and carefully counted his change, to the disgust of those behind him. He had hardly gained the other side of the turnstile when the two motorcycle cops loomed suddenly behind him.
Without wasting a second look, Speedy started to run down the aisle bordering the last row of grandstand seats, dodging in and out among the people and nearly knocking a score or more down. A fleeting backward glance told him that the cops were right after him. One policeman started to shout at him to stop. Hands were jerked out to bar his path, but Speedy avoided them. The attention of the whole grandstand was diverted from the field, where the Pittsburgh team was holding fielding practice, and directed at the flying youth and his two pursuers. Strangely enough, most of the sympathy seemed to be for Speedy, for many voices shouted, "Beat it, kid," "Thatta boy, Jesse James" and the like.
Speedy swung abruptly to the right and ran down one of the inclined aisles, attempting to lose himself among the ticket-holders who were being shown to their seats by the ushers. He gained some ground in this way but when he reached the end of the aisle, with only the row of boxes between him and the
