puts spit on the ball and throws it at the striker—that's the guy with the water dipper."
"Why?" she asked. "Is he trying to hit him?"
"Yes, but the striker tries not to get hit—because of the spit all over the ball, I'd say."
"Why is the striker waving the water dipper around?"
"He's trying to keep that spitty ball away from him. If he by chance hits the ball with the dipper, he runs and tries to hide. And if that guy over there catches it, why, they commence arguing about it."
"Run home!" Chester shouted to Joe. "Go on home!" How could they go home, I wondered, when they were orphans, or as good as, just like the rest of us? Home. I was too sad to talk to Lacey anymore, so I just shut down the explaining machine.
The baseball game turned into a boxing match. Chester sat on Spud, and Mickey cheered him on: "Smack him one! Hit 'im in the head. You can't hurt him there."
Spud and Chester went tumbling down the aisle, rolling like a bowling ball straight into Mr. Szprot. That woke him up, got Miss Doctor's attention, and put an end to the game in a hurry.
"SIT!" Mr. Szprot bellowed. "I don't want to hear a sound above a whisper from you louts. Sit there and thank God that you are here and not sleeping on the streets of Chicago."
At first there was silence, and then Mickey Dooley said quietly, "As the mother skunk said to the little skunk, 'Let us spray.'"
They all erupted into laughter, and I thought Mr. Szprot might put us off the train right there in Louse Creek, Nebraska, but Miss Doctor pushed him aside. "Rodzina," she said, "take this rowdy bunch and keep them quiet."
"But Miss Doctor, I didn—"
"Rodzina!"
I decided to tell them a story. That always quieted my brothers. Toddy and Jan were not twins but were born so close together and looked so much alike, everyone thought they were, for you couldn't tell where Toddy left off and Jan began. When they grew from babyhood to little boyhood, they did everything together. They even died together in a fire, which devoured Auntie Manya's house while she was looking after them there one night. After that, Auntie Manya went away, and we didn't see her again, tiny Auntie Manya who smelled of mothballs and tomato soup. I had told Toddy and Jan stories each night, and after they died I just continued, even though they were not around to hear. For a long time in the dark I told stories to little boys who were not there.
The orphans all gathered in the front of the car, close to the warmth of the stove. I settled myself in my seat by the window. Poking at some new holes in the knees of my stockings, I began. "I'll tell you about the time my papa won a pig in a raffle. He thought he'd lead it home on a string like a dog, but the pig, being no dog, just grunted and sat down. Papa tried to carry it. The pig squealed and squirmed so much, Papa dropped it and had to chase after it through the muddy streets until he caught it again. Papa decided he and the pig would take a streetcar."
"Get outa here," said Sammy. "You can't take a pig on a streetcar."
"I know that and my papa knew that, so he went into a bakery and got a flour sack. He put the pig in the sack, tied it up tight with string, and waited for a trolley. He paid his nickel, sat down, and shoved the pig underneath his seat. The pig began to squeal, and to cover the noise, Papa began to sing."
"What did he sing?" Lacey asked.
"That doesn't really matter. He—"
"But I want to know. What did he sing?"
"For Heaven's sake! Maybe 'Silver Threads Among the Gold' and 'The Song of the Polish Legion.' Now can I continue?"
Lacey smiled and nodded.
"Finally the pig grew silent."
"Was he dead?" asked Lacey.
"No, he was just quiet. Unlike you. Papa sat back and relaxed. And then an awful smell filled the streetcar. The air grew greenish and thick. The smell was coming from where Papa was sitting. People stared at him. They grumbled and moved away. Finally the streetcar rumbled to a stop, and the driver stood up and
"Why?" she asked. "Is he trying to hit him?"
"Yes, but the striker tries not to get hit—because of the spit all over the ball, I'd say."
"Why is the striker waving the water dipper around?"
"He's trying to keep that spitty ball away from him. If he by chance hits the ball with the dipper, he runs and tries to hide. And if that guy over there catches it, why, they commence arguing about it."
"Run home!" Chester shouted to Joe. "Go on home!" How could they go home, I wondered, when they were orphans, or as good as, just like the rest of us? Home. I was too sad to talk to Lacey anymore, so I just shut down the explaining machine.
The baseball game turned into a boxing match. Chester sat on Spud, and Mickey cheered him on: "Smack him one! Hit 'im in the head. You can't hurt him there."
Spud and Chester went tumbling down the aisle, rolling like a bowling ball straight into Mr. Szprot. That woke him up, got Miss Doctor's attention, and put an end to the game in a hurry.
"SIT!" Mr. Szprot bellowed. "I don't want to hear a sound above a whisper from you louts. Sit there and thank God that you are here and not sleeping on the streets of Chicago."
At first there was silence, and then Mickey Dooley said quietly, "As the mother skunk said to the little skunk, 'Let us spray.'"
They all erupted into laughter, and I thought Mr. Szprot might put us off the train right there in Louse Creek, Nebraska, but Miss Doctor pushed him aside. "Rodzina," she said, "take this rowdy bunch and keep them quiet."
"But Miss Doctor, I didn—"
"Rodzina!"
I decided to tell them a story. That always quieted my brothers. Toddy and Jan were not twins but were born so close together and looked so much alike, everyone thought they were, for you couldn't tell where Toddy left off and Jan began. When they grew from babyhood to little boyhood, they did everything together. They even died together in a fire, which devoured Auntie Manya's house while she was looking after them there one night. After that, Auntie Manya went away, and we didn't see her again, tiny Auntie Manya who smelled of mothballs and tomato soup. I had told Toddy and Jan stories each night, and after they died I just continued, even though they were not around to hear. For a long time in the dark I told stories to little boys who were not there.
The orphans all gathered in the front of the car, close to the warmth of the stove. I settled myself in my seat by the window. Poking at some new holes in the knees of my stockings, I began. "I'll tell you about the time my papa won a pig in a raffle. He thought he'd lead it home on a string like a dog, but the pig, being no dog, just grunted and sat down. Papa tried to carry it. The pig squealed and squirmed so much, Papa dropped it and had to chase after it through the muddy streets until he caught it again. Papa decided he and the pig would take a streetcar."
"Get outa here," said Sammy. "You can't take a pig on a streetcar."
"I know that and my papa knew that, so he went into a bakery and got a flour sack. He put the pig in the sack, tied it up tight with string, and waited for a trolley. He paid his nickel, sat down, and shoved the pig underneath his seat. The pig began to squeal, and to cover the noise, Papa began to sing."
"What did he sing?" Lacey asked.
"That doesn't really matter. He—"
"But I want to know. What did he sing?"
"For Heaven's sake! Maybe 'Silver Threads Among the Gold' and 'The Song of the Polish Legion.' Now can I continue?"
Lacey smiled and nodded.
"Finally the pig grew silent."
"Was he dead?" asked Lacey.
"No, he was just quiet. Unlike you. Papa sat back and relaxed. And then an awful smell filled the streetcar. The air grew greenish and thick. The smell was coming from where Papa was sitting. People stared at him. They grumbled and moved away. Finally the streetcar rumbled to a stop, and the driver stood up and
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