I longed through all the weary hours to be running out barefoot on the prairies; to be playing soak-ball, bull pen or two old cat, on one of the vacant lots, or else to be splashing about like a big Newfoundland dog in the cool waters of Lynn Creek.
About that time my father had considerable business to attend to in Chicago and was absent from home for days and weeks at a time.

You know the old adage, "When the cat's away," etc.?
Well, mouse-like, that was the time in which I played my hardest.

I played hookey day after day, and though I was often punished for doing so it had but little effect.
Run away from school I would, and run away from school I did until even the old man became disgusted with the idea of trying to make a scholar of me.
Sport of any kind, and particularly sport of an outdoor variety, had for me more attractions than the best book that was ever published.

The game of base-ball was then in its infancy and while it was being played to some extent to the eastward of us the craze had not as yet reached Marshalltown.

It arrived there later and it struck the town with both feet, too, when it did come.
"Soak Ball" was at this time my favorite sport.