of the lot and, as if aimed by an expert marksman, crashed through the exact center of the large plate glass window of the drug store on the corner!
There was a warning cry and in a second, as if by magic, the field was deserted. Except for the mighty hitter who, head down and oblivious of catastrophe, had turned third base and was headed home. But a few feet from the plate he raised his head and turned to see if the outfielder on the opponents' side had retrieved the ball. Instead he saw a fat, white-clad man rush out of the drug store, look fleetingly at the smashed window and then start running angrily up the street shaking his fist.
That was enough for the sandlot Sultan of Swat. He crossed the home base and kept right on going. He leaped on his bicycle almost in his stride and started pedaling madly. Only when he was three blocks away did he esteem himself safe. He slowed down, panting and a little white-faced, and rode decorously the remaining distance to Smythe's Sweets Shoppe. Here he dismounted and pushed his wheel across the sidewalk and down an alley to the rear of the shop. He entered the store by the back door.
A small, nervous man was waiting for him. It was Mr. Smythe, the proprietor.
"Where have you been all this time, Swift?" demanded this bird-like but shrewd creature querulously.
"I had a lot of stuff to deliver," said Swift, surnamed Harold and nicknamed Speedy, because of the speed with which he went from place to place,
