§ 184 Absolutely No Reason for It
Harry Beresford, the actor, was born in England but has lived long enough in America practically to have recovered from it. One fall a friend sent him two tickets for one of the World’s Series ball games at the Polo Grounds, and he took with him to the game a newly arrived Englishman, a distant kinsman.
The stranger sat patiently enough through seven innings. The riotous proceeding was a puzzle to him but he was too polite to mention it. Then, when the mighty crowd, following the baseball custom, stood up to stretch, he rose, too, and started for the aisle.
“Hold on!” said Beresford. “It isn’t over yet.”
“I was only going to get a cup of tea, old chap,” explained his guest.
“You can’t get tea now,” said Beresford; “the game goes right on.”
“You mean to say there is no tea being served?” demanded the Englishman in amazement.
“Certainly not!” said Beresford.
“Well,” demanded the other, “what, then, is the purpose of the damned game?”