“What’s the matter, hayfoot, you scared?” the Whammer taunted.

“Not of you,” Roy said.

“Let’s go across the tracks where nobody’ll get hurt,” Mercy suggested.

“Nobody but the busher and his bazooka. What’s in it, busher?”

“None of your business.” Roy picked up the bassoon case. The crowd moved in a body across the tracks, the kids circling around to get a good view, and the engineer and fireman watching from their cab window.

Sam cornered one of the kids who lived nearby and sent him home for a fielder’s glove and his friend’s catcher’s mitt. While they were waiting, for protection he buttoned underneath his coat the washboard Roy had won. Max drew a batter’s box alongside a piece of slate. He said he would call the throws and they would count as one of the three pitches only if they were over or if the Whammer swung and missed.

When the boy returned with the gloves, the sun was going down, and though the sky was aflame with light all the way to the snowy mountain peak, it was chilly on the ground.

Breaking the seal, Sam squeezed the baseball box and the pill shot up like a greased egg. He tossed it to Mercy, who inspected the hide and stitches, then rubbed the shine off and flipped it to Roy.

“Better throw a couple of warm-ups.”

“My arm is loose,” said Roy.

“It’s your funeral.”

Placing his bassoon case out of the way in the grass, Roy shed his coat. One of the boys came forth to hold it.

“Be careful you don’t spill the pockets,” Roy told him.

Sam came forward with the catcher’s glove on. It was too small for his big hand but he said it would do all right.

“Sam, I wish you hadn’t bet that money on me,” Roy said.

“I won’t take it if we win, kiddo, but just let it stand if we lose,” Sam said, embarrassed.

“We came by it too hard.”