Smythe's Sweets Shoppe was for the moment forgotten. The boy longed to run over and join the embryo Babe Ruths.
Opportunity came in the form of a cry from the upper window of an apartment house across the street. "Johnn-e-e-e-e! Johnne-e-e-e! Come home to your lunch!" in a woman's voice, wrecked the ball game for one player, the catcher on the side in the field. Johnny reluctantly dropped glove and mask and started across the street.
"Need a man?" cried the boy on the wheel at once and had picked up the dropped implements of war even before the affirmative answer came. The others accepted him as a matter of course, such is the democracy of America's national game. The opposing side was retired without incident, the newcomer having little chance to distinguish himself.
His own side came to bat, to the joy of the new recruit. Batting was really the part of baseball he enjoyed most. He had studied Babe Ruth. He knew how. He waited impatiently while two men struck out. The next two saved him from nervous prostration by getting on base. The crucial moment came. The bicyclist from Smythe's Sweets Shoppe came to the plate swinging two bats. He tossed one aside in the approved manner. He took the traditional hunching, menacing Ruth stance at the plate. The first ball was "right over" and he smote it lustily.
It was a noble swat. Too noble. The runners scurried around the bases. The batter rounded first and started for second. The ball traveled clear out
