guage was hot enough to dry up the water in his tank.
The boy on the wheel flipped around another corner. He stopped in front of a brownstone house and rang the bell. A pleasant faced young lady, in dust cap and apron, answered.
"Good morning—Smythe's Sweets Shoppe service, madam," said the boy, handing her a box of candy wrapped in art paper and a ribbon and sweeping off his cap with a courtly bow.
The woman giggled.
"Oh, you funny boy," she said.
The boy grinned. He ran down the steps and mounted his wheel again. He made ten or more similar stops in the neighborhood, at each one repeating his greeting and delivering one of the packages from his wire tray. Finally the tray was empty.
Always the boy traveled at a fast pace. He had finished his deliveries now and, as ordered by his employer, was hurrying back to Smythe's Sweets Shoppe. But suddenly as he passed an open lot en route, the only piece of unimproved land for miles around, he slowed down. His eyes were upon a group of youths of about his own age, playing baseball on the field. Opposite the home plate he stopped and rested one foot upon the curb.
The boys, bareheaded and coats off, were playing an impromptu game, six to a side. The cyclist watched one side have its innings. He followed every ball hit or fielded with eager, expert eyes. Baseball was evidently a major passion with him.
