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 to imaginary grandstands. The chief didn't try to stop us. He just looked sullen and waited for us to get through. It was the Baseball God against the God of the Blue Hen, and he was quite a square old sport, once you forgot his gastronomic stunts. After I'd lost my wind and Tib had stopped mincing about in the pitcher's box, the chief rattled off a few eeny-meeny-miney-mo sentiments to his god and again swung back his club for another foozle. Dear, dear! He had never heard of curved pitching and of course he stood no show from the go-in.

"Tib then tossed up a ball so slow that I could have sworn a babe might have lambasted it. But such a curve! It loafed up to the plate, and just as Mr. Hen exclaimed 'wow' with much satisfaction it dropped a bit and wriggled by. Then I gave another college yell, and Tib pinned on imaginary bouquets, while the chief took another whack at cussing. I guess he'd forgotten some of his ancestors in his previous efforts, for this time with concentrated mind he seemed to be dipping into the dry bones of the dim past, and he rattled the skeleton of every forebear as he tore down the macadam. When he arrived in the nineteenth century he was in rare fettle, and for pure form he had a circus boss beaten to a tender mush.

"But now I could see Tib was taking more time