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got the black piece of cloth scraped off, and I tossed it into the waste-basket. Sister Agnes was still mad. She did not even look at me. She knew I was there, but she did not look at me. It was funny to say good-night to her, but you have to say it.
    So I said: “Good-night, Sister.”
    She said: “Go to the basket and get that piece of cloth.”
    The cloth was tarry and sticky. I felt cheap, giving it to her. I felt sorry for her. I thought she was going to sew up the hole with the tarry piece. Tar stuck to her fingers. I got scared. I felt goofy.
    She said: “You are a bad boy.”
    She said: “You are a very bad boy.”
    She said: “You are a very, very bad boy.”
    I played as if I did not hear. I looked at the door. I played as if I were rolling tar with my fingers. I was thinking I had better tell her I was sorry. But it would be sissified. I did not.
    She said: “Are you listening to me?”
    I was thinking about sissies.
    I said: “What?”
    You are not supposed to say “What?” to Sisters. You are supposed to say: “What did you say, Sister?” So I did wrong again. I was in for it again.
    I knew it was coming, but I did not duck. I did pretty well for a little second-grader. It did not hurt at all. It would have hurt some other guy, but I was tough.
    She said: “That’s all. Go home.”
    I should have said: “I am sorry,” then. I should have said it, but I didn’t.
    After that, Sister Agnes did not like me. Once she hollered in front of the whole room that my hands were dirty. I had to go out and wash them. Once I spilled ink, and I did not have a blotter.
    Sister Agnes came down the aisle.
    â€œHurry!” she said. “Blot it up! Hurry!”
    You are supposed to have blotters. I did not have any. I borrowed one from a girl.
    In front of everybody, Sister Agnes hollered: “After this, bring your own. Good heavens, they only cost a penny!” I felt cheap. The kids thought I was poor.
    II
    Sister Agnes was not the second-grade teacher when we came back the next year to start the third grade. The second-graders had another teacher. I went to her and asked about Sister Agnes. She said Sister Agnes was in Philadelphia, which is where the great ball players come from.
    That year I was only a third-grader, but I was the best ball player in school. I pitched. I struck out forty men. I banged out twenty homers. Sister Agnes should have been here. She should have seen the game I pitched against Whitman. She should have seen me hit home runs when I was a fourth-grader. She should have seen me bust out sixty-nine homers and eighty-seven triples when I was a fifth-grader. She should have been here last year to see me strike them out, one…two…three. And every game, too! I am sure great.
    Last September, who do you think was teaching the second-graders again? Sister Agnes! I met her in the hall. Gee! When she came toward me, I felt just like the time she came down the aisle and sat on the tar. She did not talk about the tar, though. She said she had heard all about my great pitching. And that goes to show that when you are great, you are just great, and even when you do something bad, you are still great.
    I liked her more and more every day. She helped me whenever I had to stay after school. That goofy Sister Justine, the principal, made me stay in. If the team had me pitching, we would have won the Emerson game. Now the Emerson kids think the Catholics are no good. That shows you. Do you think that goofy Sister Justine cared if the Emerson kids called us “red necks” and “popes”? Heck, no!
    She said: “He has to be punished. I am going to show this boy that he can’t do as he pleases around here.” Blah, blah, blah.
    But Sister Agnes was nice. She came into the room after schooland rooted for me by telling me to work faster. Nearly every day I had to write five hundred times: “I must