Nobody could believe what happened next.
The ball struck the second-base bag, bounded into short center—and did not bound again. It landed squarely in a puddle. And that was where George caught up with it. Running full tilt, bending low, he plunged his left hand down as if snatching at a fish. Simultaneously he pivoted toward first; the effort cost him his footing, his lunging body toppling forward. Twisting in midair, he flung the ball in a spray of mud and water, threw it with his wrong hand, his left hand, under his body—and splashed face first into another puddle. How he got anything on the throw was hard to imagine. But he did. The ball rocketed to the first baseman, who stretched and took it a split second before Glenn’s straining foot kicked the bag.
“Out!” yelled the umpire, raising the classic thumb.
The game was over.
For a moment silence enveloped the diamond. Then the Stockings broke from their positions, jumping and whooping, running to George, who climbed slowly from the quagmire, a tar-baby figure, his white teeth gleaming through a layer of mud.
Millar and Hurley leaped from the table and dashed on the field.
Champion strode after them. I started out too, then hung back, made shy by the awareness that I was not one of them. I’d almost forgotten it in the excitement.
The crowd applauded George graciously. The Alerts formed a huddle and boomed three cheers for the visitors. I tried to imagine Steinbrenner’s Yankees hip-hurrahing the Red Sox after dropping a close one. The Stockings returned the cheers, lifted George from the mud, and placed him on their shoulders.
“We are a band of ball players
From Cincinnati City.
We go to toss the ball around
And sing to you our ditty.
Hurrah, hurrah,
For the noble game hurrah. . . . “
I looked on silently, envying them their joy, their accomplishment, their belonging. My glance wandered to where McDermott had been standing. He was gone. His absence caused a strange disquiet in me and I scanned the area behind. The long table was empty now except for the score book and the metal box holding the Stockings’ share of the gate receipts.
The cash box.
Moved by an uneasy premonition, I stepped toward the table. And that’s when I saw Le Caron edging through the crowd, angling toward it. He seemed to be keeping a wary watch on the diamond. Probably just paranoia on my part, I told myself, but nonetheless I circled the opposite way through the crowd, on a diagonal to him.
The table stood several yards inside the restraining rope. The box lay in reach of anyone who dared to duck inside, take two long strides, then turn and vanish into the crowd. Le Caron edged to the rope and took a quick glance at the field. I knew then that he would make the attempt.
If I’d had time to think, I might have hesitated. Tension knotted my stomach and bunched my shoulders. I stepped to the rope as Le Caron darted inside. He seized the cash box. I came up under the barrier as he turned, and clamped my hand over the wrist bearing the box.
“Wha—!” He struggled to wrench his arm back. I yanked his skinny wrist hard. The box tumbled free and burst open on the ground. Le Caron was wiry, snake quick in his movements, but not strong enough to pull free. He stumbled toward me and I spun him like a dancing partner, twisting his arm behind him and jamming it toward his neck. He gasped in pain and tried to twist away. I pulled him back by ramming my left forearm against his windpipe.
“I’ll cut you,” he wheezed, reaching across his body with his free hand. I shoved his arm higher and he froze.
“Shut up or I’ll snap it!” I said. I had no idea what to do next.
“What’s this ruckus?” a loud voice called. “What’re you doing to him?”
McDermott pushed past hushed onlookers and ducked under the rope. He wasn’t guffawing now. In fact, he looked as grim as the sap he gripped.
“Ask him,” I said, wheeling so that Le Caron became a shield. He raised his foot to stomp mine, but changed his mind when again I thrust his arm to the breaking point.
McDermott crouched and started for me, then stopped and stared over my shoulder.
“Is there a problem?” A calm British-inflected voice spoke behind me. I took a quick look. Harry Wright stood with a bat resting on his shoulder. He looked relaxed, but his eyes were locked with McDermott’s.
“He went for the cash box,” I said.
“Liar!” spat Le Caron. “The bastard jumped me!”
“I’m thinking there’s a mistake,” McDermott said, sounding more affable. “I happened to see it all. Your man misjudged this lad’s intent. Sure, an’ he acted in haste. We need to set this square.”
“Let him go.” Harry stepped up beside me, bat still cradled.
I released Le Caron and stepped back quickly. He straightened, rubbing his arm. I watched him closely. The menace I had sensed at a distance was magnified now. Partly it was physical—the sallow face pitted with pox scars above the black beard, the teeth greenish and rotten-looking—but it was more: the man radiated some sort of evil, strong as a force field. I’d never felt anything like it. His glittering black eyes fixed on mine.
“It was no mistake,” I said. “He was stealing—”
“Are there other witnesses?” Harry asked.
We looked around. People were already edging away; those remaining claimed to have seen nothing.
McDermott smiled, his eyes cold. “Your lads showed well today. Be a shame to ruin it now.” He took Le Caron’s good arm. “We’ll see you in Troy. It’s my thought your paid ballists will get their due against the Haymaker lads.”
“You’d be well advised,” Harry said, “to
