death of cold lying there this early in April."

The boy sprang to his feet, while his friends grinned sympathetically.

"And you, John Fletcher," Mrs. Silvey went on, "you needn't laugh. Your
mother won't like it a bit better, if I telephone her. She'll call you
home in a minute!"

They all rose at this. Truly, modern electrical inventions widen the
maternal scope of authority.

"Shucks!" said Skinny, as he brushed some dead grass from his coat. "Now
she's spoiled it all. What'll we do?"

John tossed his battered cap high in the air in a sudden access of
spirits. "One for scrub," he shouted. "First raps for the first game of
scrub. Go home and get your league ball and bat, Sid. I'll bring my
first baseman's glove. Silvey'll find his catcher's mitt. Beat you home!
Beat you home!"

They were off. Down the cement sidewalk they darted, their quick breaths
showing ever so slightly in the crisp air. John stamped up the steps and
into the front hall.

"Mother!" he called. "Mother!"

"Yes, son?" came the voice from the big second floor sewing room.

"Where's my baseball glove?" He kicked against the bottom step of the
stairway impatiently.

"Did you wipe your feet when you came in?" came the disconcerting
inquiry. "I don't want the carpets all over mud."

"Y-yes."

"Go back and wipe them right away. Then come up and tell me what you
want."

He gave his offending shoes a half-rub against the fiber mat on the
porch, and was up by her side in another moment. She looked up from the
basket of ragged stockings she was sorting.

"Now, what is it?"

"My first baseman's glove. The one dad gave me for my birthday. Know
where it is?"

"Where did you leave it?"

"Why, don't you know?" His surprise was genuine. Usually his mother
picked up his boyish belongings and stored them in a place of safety.

"Is that the glove which laid in the coat closet all last November? the
one that I kept telling you to put away before it became lost?"

He nodded. "Please tell me, Mother. The boys are all down at Silvey's,
and I've got to get it _quick_!"

Mrs. Fletcher yielded with a smile. "Seems to me I saw it on your closet
shelf, the other day."

A moment later, a shout told that her memory had served her rightly. The
door slammed, eager feet sprang down the wooden porch steps, and her son
dogtrotted north toward his chum's, as fast as his legs could carry him.

When he arrived, Silvey scaled the stout wire fence on the railr