ckward at its swift
approach, leaped high, caught it, and with a long curving swing, so easy
as to appear almost effortless, sent it hurtling back. The lad on the
pitcher's mound made as if to catch it, changed his mind, dodged,
started after it.

The boy at bat called to Nick: "Heh, you! Wanna come on and pitch?"

Nick shook his head and went on.

He wandered leisurely along the gravel path that led to the park golf
shelter. The wide porch was crowded with golfers and idlers. A foursome
was teed up at the first tee. Nick leaned against a porch pillar waiting
for them to drive. That old boy had pretty good practise swing ...
Stiff, though ... Lookit that dame. Je's! I bet she takes fifteen shots
before she ever gets on to the green ... There, that kid had pretty good
drive. Must of been hundred and fifty, anyway. Pretty good for a kid.

Nick, in the course of his kaleidoscopic career, had been a caddie at
thirteen in torn shirt and flapping knickers. He had played the smooth,
expert, scornful game of the caddie with a natural swing from the lithe
waist and a follow-through that was the envy of the muscle-bound men
who watched him. He hadn't played in years. The game no longer
interested him. He entered the shelter lunchroom. The counters were
lined with lean, brown, hungry men and lean, brown, hungry women. They
were eating incredible dishes considering that the hour was 3 P.
M. and the day a hot one. Corned-beef hash with a poached egg on
top; wieners and potato salad; meat pies; hot roast beef sandwiches;
steaming cups of coffee in thick white ware; watermelon. Nick slid a leg
over a stool as he had done earlier in the afternoon. Here, too, the
Hebes were of stern stuff, as they needs must be to serve these ravenous
hordes of club swingers who swarmed upon them from dawn to dusk. Their
task it was to wait upon the golfing male, which is man at his
simplest--reduced to the least common denominator and shorn of all
attraction for the female eye and heart. They represented merely hungry
mouths, weary muscles, reaching fists. The waitresses served them as a
capable attendant serves another woman's child--efficiently and without
emotion.

"Blueberry pie a la mode," said Nick--"with strawberry ice cream."

Inured as she was to the horrors of gastronomic miscegenation, the
waitress--an old girl--recoiled at this.

"Say, I don't think you'd like that. They don't mix so very good. Why
don't you try the peach pie instea