(xx) The Honeymoon Couple

Well, that's it. It's about the middle of the morning. 10-30 o'clock or so as we enter the small house halfway up in the next block now. And here in the living room we find Mrs. Victor Cook and her son Mr. Rush Cook. The latter has newly arrived home from a session of intensive

baseball over at Tatman's vacant lot and he's in a state of extreme soya dishevelments. He's saying to his mother, when I received your message, ma'am, I was in a most unusual situation. I was between third base and home plate, flat on my face, with my nose buried in the ground and my arms and legs flailing frantically. You look like

that's the way you've been spending the morning. I'd made an unsuccessful slide see. Don't you want to know why I said little Charlie, how's your care over his tapets they can not ask you? I made one of the most unsuccessful slides in the history of modern baseball. Who I made myself ridiculous. Don't you want to know

why I sent for you? Yes. About a half an hour ago the telephone rang and it You'd probably have been frightened, Mom. You could have seen me there between third base and home plate with my face flat on the ground, and my nose buried in the dirt.

Little Charlie Hushier was frightened. He knelt down beside me and whispered in my ear, your mother wants you, Rushy hiss. And as I turned my pale, dust-streaked cheek toward him with perhaps a telltale tear or two, smearing the coarse flesh, where the roughness and brutality of organized baseball had left their marks and bruises and stains.