Then he went in, washed his hands, and sat down at table with Ivy and her mother. 

 "Just a sliver for me," said Ivy, "and no onions." 

 Her father put down his knife and fork, cleared his throat, and spake, thus: 

 "You get on your hat and meet me at the 2:45 inter-urban. You're going to the ball game with me." 

 "Ball game!" repeated Ivy. "I? But I'd——" 

 "Yes, you do," interrupted her father.  "You've been moping around here looking a cross between Saint Cecilia and Little Eva long enough. I don't care if you don't know a spitball from a fadeaway when you see it. You'll be out in the air all afternoon, and there'll be some excitement. All the girls go. You'll like it. They're playing Marshalltown." 

 Ivy went, looking the sacrificial lamb. Five minutes after the game was called she pointed one tapering white finger in the direction of the pitcher's mound. 

 "Who's that?" she asked. 

 "Pitcher," explained Papa Keller, laconically. Then, patiently:  "He throws the ball." 

 "Oh," said Ivy.  "What did you say his name was?" 

 "I didn't say. But it's Rudie Schlachweiler. The boys call him Dutch. Kind of a pet, Dutch is." 

 "Rudie Schlachweiler!" murmured Ivy, dreamily.  "What a strong name!" 

 "Want some peanuts?" inquired her father. 

 "Does one eat peanuts at a ball game?" 

 "It ain't hardly legal if you don't," Pa Keller assured her. 

 "Two sacks," said Ivy.  "Papa, why do they call it a diamond, and what are those brown bags at the corners, and what does it count if you hit the ball, and why do they rub their hands in the dust and then—er—spit on them, and what salary does a pitcher get, and why does the red-haired man on the other side dance around like that between the second and third brown bag, and doesn't a pitcher do anything but pitch, and wh——?" 

 "You're on," said 

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