started on a new tack. "Fans and fan-esses," he said, addressing the
crowd through the megaphone, "why don't you root? Make a noise like
you meant it. The Torontos have simply gotter win this game; they need
it, but you gotter help 'em. Now then, every-body--ROOT," and "root"
they did, arduously, continuously, joyously. The din was terrific,
ear-splitting, and weird. Everybody had a different idea as to the
best methods of rooting, and even the fanesses made noises of sorts.
Nobody thereafter heard what the umpire said, they gathered his
decisions only by the result of the various plays, and when, in the
ninth and last innings, the Torontos batted out the winning run, one
prolonged wild "root" spread the glad tidings to all and sundry outside
the gates for many blocks around.

William, with a final yell through the megaphone, hurried back to
Walter Wadsworth's stand, and there ran into Whimple and Simmons, who
were pledging each other in glasses of lemonade. The boy paused
irresolutely.

"William," said Whimple, who was also rather embarrassed, "was it fair?"

William smiled. "Well, Mister Whimple," he said, "when that bunch was
here once last season for a series of five games, my Pa took their
stuff from the station up to the hotel in one of his express wagons,
and I was with him, so, of course, I helped to lift the stuff off the
wagon, and when I'm through the same manager what they have this year
slips something into my hand and I thought it was a dime, and he says
to me, 'I hate to give a Canuck anything,' he says, 'but you are a
bright chap, only don't spend it all at once,' and when he goes into
the hotel I opens up my hand, and there's one of them dinky little
American cents. You bet I was mad, but my Pa says to me, 'It's mostly
a long street that don't have cross streets, William,' he says, 'so,
keep your hair on.' I did, and I guess me and that Buffalo man are
quits now."

CHAPTER XV

One afternoon, a few days afterwards, Whimple, dropping into Tommy
Watson's store, found the auctioneer and "Chuck" Epstein gravely
examining a doll's carriage and its occupant, a doll eminently
respectable in mien and terrifically blue of eye.

"Is this a new line, Tommy?" Whimple asked.

"No--it's 'Chuck's' purchase, he intends to present the outfit to a young
lady."

"To Dolly Turnpike," said Epstein quietly, "it's her birthday to-morrow;
what do you think of it?"

Whimple examined the carriage and t