With the last game of the season gone by, Dick half imagined that his right wrist was a huge boil.
At the gateway Schimmelpodt, that true devotee of sport, waited.
As the young High School pitcher came forth Herr Schimmelpodt rested a fat hand on the boy's shoulder, whispering in his ear: "Ach! But I know vere is dere a _real_ jointed fishpole.

It was two dollar, but now it stands itself by, marked to one-nineteen.
In der morning, Bresgott, it shall be yours.

Und listen!" Dick looked up into the blinking eyes.
"Dot fishpole for der summer use is goot fine! Und venever you see me going by bis my vagon, don't you be slow to holler und ask me for a ride!".