She handed him The Kansas City Star and he shucked off its brown wrapper and opened it to the
sporting page. He folded The Star open and propped it against the water pitcher with his cereal
dish to steady it, so he could read while he ate.
"Harold," his mother stood in the kitchen doorway, "Harold, please don't muss up the paper.
Your father can't read his Star if its been mussed."
"I won't muss it," Krebs said.
His sister sat down at the table and watched him while he read.
"We're playing indoor over at school this afternoon," she said. "I'm going to pitch."
"Good," said Krebs. "How's the old wing?"
"I can pitch better than lots of the boys. I tell them all you taught me. The other girls aren't much
good."
"Yeah?" said Krebs.
"I tell them all you're my beau. Aren't you my beau, Hare?"
"You bet."
"Couldn't your brother really be your beau just because he's your brother?"
"I don't know."
"Sure you know. Couldn't you be my beau, Hare, if I was old enough and if you wanted to?"
"Sure. You're my girl now."
"Am I really your girl?"
"Sure."
"Do you love me?"
"Uh, huh."
"Do you love me always?"
"Sure."
"Will you come over and watch me play indoor?