Scorekeeper Continued He shouted himself. "Burn it to him, Joe," he called, spitting in his glove and wiping it with his fist the way Harry did. He wished he could call time-out to wipe his glasses off, but he didn't care. He knew what the kids would say. It was bad enough being called Piggy, because he was fat, but it would have been worse if they called him Specs. Rogue let one ball pass, then he got hold of the next one and belted it foul, way off to the left. Three balls and two strikes. Piggy could hear Harry shouting, but he didn't shout any more. He tried to concentrate on the batter, but he kept remembering a story he had read lately. Second-base Simpson, it was called, and it was a book by Wallace LaMar Hoyt. He had read a lot of books by Wallace LaMar Hoyt. He remembered some of them, Halfback Harry, Fullback Fullmer. They were all about sports, and about someone who had knocked a home-run, or who made a touchdown in the last minute of the game. Sometimes Piggy had thought that he would do something like that someday. He imagined things like that all the time. "Strike three!" Rogue cut at the ball, missing it cleanly. Harry let out a yell and threw his glove in the air. He ran into the center of the diamond and thumped Joe on the back. "Attaboy, Joe. You're doing fine, Joe," he shouted. Joe straightened up and smiled and he walked off the field. Piggy was still thinking about asking him for his mitt, but he couldn't now, because the whole team came up' and told Joe how fine he was doing. Piggy walked over too. He couldn't keep his eyes off the new Joe Gordon mitt that Joe had thrust over his wrists, though. He wanted to ask about it, but he didn't. Somehow, it wasn't the same in here on the sidelines as it was out in the field. He wasn't nervous anymore. He only wished that he could have made a clean catch of that ball and tagged the runner on third. Then he would have been the one who was getting the praise. He could have gone up and asked Joe for the mitt. "See here," he would have said. "That last throw was pretty hard on my hands with this old mitt. I almost didn't grab on to it. Let me take my own mitt, will you?" And Joe would have had to do it, because of the fine play that Piggy had just made. But he hadn't made it, and he tried to console himself. Pretty soon, he thought, it'll be my turn at bat. Maybe I can really get hold of a good one. Maybe I can knock it clean down over the gate and into the road. The bases will be full. All the kids on the sidelines will be cheering. I'll step up, and I'll take a swing at the first one that comes over. He could almost hear it connect, with a solid ripeness. Whang! Harry came up to him. "Hey, Piggy. What-ya doin'?" Piggy looked up and blinked. "What?" "What-ya pullin' faces for?" Piggy hadn't known what he was doing. It was like waking from a dream. He'd that home-run almost in his hands. He flushed. Harry edged up close to him and began kicking his toes in the dirt. "Say, Piggy" "Yeah?" "I hate to do this, but it looks like it's gonna be a purty close game. I guess I better let Rod play third next inning." Piggy didn't trust himself to look up. "Sure," he said hoarsely. Harry sighed, relieved. He looked at Piggy. "I'll tell you what," he said. "What?" "You can keep the scorebook." He wacked Piggy on the back with genuine enthusiasm. "You're the best score-keeper we got anyway," he said, as though wishing he'd thought of this sooner. "You know, Piggy, I can't trust nobody to keep the score the way you can. You go over and tell 'em I told you to keep score. Piggy nodded. Harry walked back over toward batter's box and cupped his hand, yelled at the pitcher. "G'wan," he shouted. "Who told you ye could pitch, anyway." Piggy watched him admiringly. Harry was some boy, all right. He'd be in the big leagues someday. Joe, too. Joe would make some-a those big league pitchers like Red Ruffing and Whit Wyatt look like class "C" one of these days, he thought. He saw Joe looking at him. He called. "You can go on using my mitt," he called. "I'm gonna keep score." Joe grinned and held up his arm. He still had the mitt hung on his wrist. "Just strike out ol' Rogue Belden once more," Piggy called, forcing a smile. "Strike him out again, and you can use it all season." Joe waved and turned back to the game. Piggy walked slowly over toward the boy who was keeping score. Page Fourteen Geometry by Marjorie Farr Three beings formed a triangle: A,B, C. A and B were maidens- One of which was me, The other was a youth, He was angle C. A liked C, and B liked C, But C liked only B. A was quite disgruntled; "Oh, what's the use! I've tried to get him But I'm still on the loose." Poor angle ! happened to be A little bit obtuse. Poor, poor angle A. I guess I'll have to reduce. Page Fifteen