Napoleon in Flannel!

First, a tip of my boater to the Wobblies and other labor agitators who secured for us hard-working stiffs an extra day of leisure at the end of our summer holiday season. My lack of dispatches during the past week-end can be explained by my refreshing visit to a summer cottage colony here along the rocky coast of the 23rd state, where communication devices are limited to steamer-mail deliveries and carrier pigeon.

But not every worker spent the recent days lazing about in an ale-and-steamed-crustacean fug. Indeed, our tireless second-sacker has continued to amaze Rooters and old base-ball men by pulling trick after trick from his bottomless gripsack of talent.

“Little Hands” Pedroia deserves a new moniker for his heroic exploits, for there is nothing “little” about his presence in a ball-park. His clouts can fell a forest of opponents! His leather can stop any hot smash or sizzling grasser ticketed for the right-side of the diamond! Even the demure Mrs. McInnes has noted the joy with which he whirls about the pitch, remarking to me that he plays like a youth-league urchin who has yet to realize his physical limitations -- nothing but arms and legs and fearless determination.

He is our Napoleon, intent upon leading the grand army of red stocking’d soldiers to another World’s Championship banner. We can do naught but follow him to glory.