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“All right, sir,” answered Rudie. “Just a minute.”

“Dad had to come on business,” said Ivy, hurriedly. “And he brought me with him. I’m–I’m on my way to school in Cleveland, you know. Awfully glad to have seen you again. We must go. That lady wants her shoes, I’m sure, and your employer is glaring at us. Come, dad.”

At the door she turned just in time to see Rudie removing the shoe from the pudgy foot of the fat lady customer.

We’ll take a jump of six months. That brings us into the lap of April.

Pa Keller looked up from his evening paper. Ivy, home for the Easter vacation, was at the piano. Ma Keller was sewing.

Pa Keller cleared his throat. “I see by the paper,” he announced, “that Schlachweiler’s been sold to Des Moines. Too bad we lost him. He was a great little pitcher, but he played in bad luck. Whenever he was on the slab the boys seemed to give him poor support.”

“Fudge!” exclaimed Ivy, continuing to play, but turning a spirited face toward her father. “What piffle! Whenever a player pitches rotten ball you’ll always hear him howling about the support he didn’t get. Schlachweiler was a bum pitcher. Anybody could hit him with a willow wand, on a windy day, with the sun in his eyes.”