The score was tied in the ninth inning. And the powetful Babe was at the bat. One strike. One ball. Two strikes. Two balls. Three balls. Three and two. Everything depended upon the next pitch. Speedy clutched the edges of his high stool in terrible suspense. The white arm of the Detroit pitcher swung aloft. The snowy sphere sped toward the Babe. The Babe took a toe hold. Wham! Like a rifle shot the ball flew over the infield. Back, back the Detroit fielders scurried. The guardian of the right garden tore to the stadium wall and braced his back against it. In vain he leaped into the air. The ball sailed twenty feet above him. Right at Speedy! Speedy was on his feet, yelling, clutching with a dozen of the fans in seats near him to catch the oncoming ball and keep it for a souvenir.
Crash! Something smote Speedy squarely in the forehead. He almost fainted. He blinked. It couldn't have been the ball from the bat of the Babe. It would have killed him, and he was certainly very much alive.
Then he came to. He rubbed his forehead sheepishly. He looked cautiously around. A paper wad lay on the desk in front of him. One of the clerks, observing Speedy in his dreamy attitude, with his mind afar off, had hurled the missile. Speedy, grinning, turned. Every clerk within his vision had temporarily stopped work and was enjoying his discomfiture. One or two of them were guffawing aloud.
Suddenly they stopped. A buzz-buzz of warning
