Out near the end of
Center Street, the grandstand has been going up, tiers of seats
rising from each curb line. The street has been rolled and
sprinkled and scraped until it is in fine condition for a
running track. Why don't you pick up that pebble and throw it
over into the lot? Suppose some runner should slip on that stone
and fall and hurt himself, you'd be to blame.
The day before the Tournament, they hang the banner:
"WELCOME VOLUNTEER FIREMEN"
from Case's drugstore across to the Furniture Emporium. Along
the line of march you may see the man of the house up on a
step-ladder against the front porch, with his hands full of drapery
and his mouth full of tacks. His wife is backing toward the geranium
bed to get a good view, cocking her head on one side.
" How 'v vif?" he asks as well as he can for the tacks.
"Little higher. Oh, not so much. Down a little. Whope! that's
. . . . Oh, plague take the firemen! Just look at that! Mercy!
Mercy!"
The man of the house can't turn his head.
"Oh, I wouldn't have had it happen for I don't know what! Ts! Ts!
Ts! That lovely silverleaf geranium that Mrs. Pritchard give me
a slip of. Broke right off! Oh, my! My! My! Do you s'pose it'd
grow if I was to stick it into the ground just as it is with all them
buds on it?"
The man of the house lets one end of the drapery go and empties his
mouth of tacks into his disengaged hand.
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