Babe & Me Read Online Free PDF Page A

seem like a riot anymore. It seemed like a parade. Everybody was happy suddenly. Somebody tossed Babe a straw hat and he put it on.
    â€œYou oughta run for president, Bambino!” some guy shouted. “Hoover and Roosevelt are bums!”

    The bad feelings that had gripped the crowd earlier were gone. It was like the biggest rock star in the world happened to stop by.
    â€œThat’s not a bad idea.” Babe chortled, his big belly shaking.
    â€œVote for Ruth!” people began to chant. “Vote for Ruth!”
    People had started pulling pencils and scraps ofpaper from their pockets. Kids pressed forward to hand them to the Babe. Patiently, he signed one for a little girl, carefully writing his name and saying a few words to her. As he accepted the next scrap of paper, the girl looked at the autograph like it was a million-dollar bill.
    â€œAsk him for an autograph, Joe,” Dad said.
    I was a little embarrassed. “ You ask him,” I said.
    â€œHe’s supposed to be a sucker for kids,” Dad pointed out. “ You ask him.”
    Babe was still signing away for the people pressed against his car. I patted my pockets. All I could come up with was the pack of baseball cards I had brought with me to get us home.
    â€œI could have him sign a card,” I suggested.
    â€œForget that,” Dad snorted. “Imagine trying to convince a card dealer that Babe Ruth signed a baseball card from the twenty-first century.”
    â€œJust a few more, kids!” Babe yelled. “I gotta go.”
    Dad and I looked around on the ground frantically to see if we could find a scrap of paper. But everybody had scooped them up already.
    I think Dad and I saw it at the same moment. A little boy ran by. As he passed us, a piece of paper fell out of his pocket. The boy didn’t notice. I pounced on the paper.

    â€œWay to go, Joe!” Dad exclaimed, slapping me five.
    Dad and I were congratulating each other when this guy came over to us. He was a tall guy, much bigger than my dad.
    â€œI believe that belongs to my son,” the guy told Dad.
    â€œFinders keepers,” I said.
    It was probably not the smartest thing to say. The guy reached into his jacket and pulled out a knife. The blade was about eight inches long. I stepped back instinctively. My heart was suddenly pounding.
    â€œHow’s about I cut off your @#$% hand?” the guy said, “and we’ll see who finds that?”
    â€œLeave my boy alone!” Dad shouted, stepping forward as he pushed me out of the way of the knife.
    â€œOkay, I’ll cut off your @#$% hand if you don’t give back my son’s autograph.”
    â€œWatch your language,” Dad said. “Kids don’t have to hear that kind of talk.”
    â€œForget it, Daddy,” the little boy said. “That boy can have it.”
    â€œHere,” I said, handing the kid the paper. “It’s not a big deal.”
    â€œSmart boy,” the kid’s father said as he slipped the knife back in his jacket. “Come on, Jimmy. Let’s go.”
    It wasn’t until they walked away that I realized how fast my heart was racing. I had to take a few deep breaths to calm myself down. By that time, Babe Ruth had roared off in his Packard. Our chance to get his autograph was gone. The crowd began to break up.
    â€œYou okay, Joe?” my dad asked, putting a hand on my shoulder.
    â€œYeah, thanks, Dad.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFor sticking up for me.”
    â€œWhat did you think I was gonna do?” Dad asked. “Just stand there and do nothing?”
    I didn’t say so, but that was exactly what I’d thought he would do.
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    As we were walking away, another guy came over and tapped me on the shoulder. He said his name was Christy Walsh and that he was “an associate of Mr. Ruth.” I recognized him as the guy who’d been sitting in the car next to Babe.
    â€œMr. Ruth saw what