the tingle of well-directed bat against ball, to have heard the "ko-ak ko-ak" of the Tate battle cry.
But now he was just Harold Lamb, graduate a week since of Sanford High School, temporarily a clerk in the First National Bank of Sanford. Doomed in a month to begin a business career of doubtful destiny in the drop-forging foundry of his rich Uncle Peter Thatcher, in Cleveland. It was very sad.
Having finished removing his sweater, Harold lay moodily down upon his bed. But not to sleep. Even if Morpheus had been paged, that soothing god would have discovered too much external opposition. It was a hot muggy night and not yet nine o'clock. Harold's strategy in retiring to the privacy of his bedroom with the announced intention to his father and mother of going right to bed was proving, now that the purpose of his early retirement had been frustrated by the elder Lamb, a source of extreme discomfort. In the neighboring yard a hose swished and a baby cried. Under the are light in front of the Lamb house youngsters were noisily busy at "kick the stick." In the living room under him, a penetrating nasal voice from Cleveland was twanging pearls of wisdom through Henry Lamb's loud speaker on "Bank
