My records on Vincent over the next month or so were an odd patch-work. I found that he could read some of the articles in the encyclopedia, but couldn't read Billy Goats Grim. That he could read What Is So Rare As A Day In June, but couldn't read Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater. It was beginning to look as though he could read what he wanted to and that was all. I don't mean a capricious wanting-to, but that he shied away from certain readings and actually couldn't read them. As yet I could find no pattern to his unreadings; so I let him choose the things he wanted and he read-oh, how he read! He gulped down the material so avidly that it worried me. But he did his gulping silently. Orally, he wore us both out with his stumbling struggles. He seemed to like school, but seldom mingled. He was shyly pleasant when the other children invited him to join them, and played quite competently- which isn't the kind of play you expect from an eight-year-old. And there matters stood until the day that Kipper-our eighth grade-dragged Vincent in, bloody and battered. 'This guy's nearly killed Gene,' Kipper said. 'Ruth's out there trying to bring him to. First aid says don't move him until we know.' 'Wait here,' I snapped at Vincent as I headed for the door. 'Get tissues for your face!' And I rushed out after Kipper. We found Gene crumpled in the middle of a horrified group gathered at the base of the canyon wall. Ruth was crying as she mopped his muddy forehead with a soggy tissue. I checked him over quickly. No obvious bleeding. I breathed a little easier as he moaned, moved and opened his eyes. He struggled to a sitting position and tenderly explored the side of his head. 'Ow! That dang rock!' He blinked tears as I parted his hair to see if he had any damage besides the egg- sized lump. He hadn't. 'He hit me with that big rock!' 'My!' I giggled, foolish with relief. 'He must have addled your brains at the same time. Look at the size of that rock!' The group separated to let Gene look, and Pete scrambled down from where he had perched on the rock for a better look at the excitement. 'Well,' Gene rubbed his head tenderly. 'Anyway, he did!' 'Come on inside,' I said, helping him up. 'Do you want Kipper to carry you?' 'Heck no!' Gene pulled away from my hands. 'I ain't hurt. G'wan-noseys!' He turned his back on the staring children. 'You children stay out here.' I herded Gene ahead of me. 'We have things to settle inside:' Vincent was waiting quietly in his seat. He had mopped himself fairly clean, though he still dabbled with a tissue at a cut over his left eye. Two long scratches oozed redly down his cheek. I spent the next few minutes rendering first aid. Vincent was certainly the more damaged of the two, and I could feel the thrumming leap of his still-racing heart against me as I turned his docile body around, tucking in his shirt during the final tidying up. 'Now.' I sat, sternly teacher, at my desk and surveyed the two before me. 'Gene, you first.' 'Well,' he ruffed his hair up and paused to finger, half proudly, the knot under his hair. 'He said let my ground squirrel go and I said no. What the heck! It was mine. And he said let it go and I said no and he took the cage and busted it and-' Indignation in his eyes faded into defensiveness. '-and I busted him one and-and– Well, then he hit me with that rock! Gosh, I was knocked out, wasn't I?' 'You were,' I said, grimly. 'Vincent?' 'He's right.' His voice was husky, his eyes on the tape on the back of one hand. Then he looked up with a tentative lift of his mouth corners. 'Except that I hit the rock with him:' 'Hit the rock with him?' I asked. 'You mean like judo or something? You pushed him against the rock hard enough to knock him out?' If you like,' he shrugged. 'It's not what I like,' I said. 'It's-what happened?' 'I hit the rock with him,' Vincent repeated. 'And why?' I asked, ignoring his foolish insistence. 'We were having a fight. He told you.' 'You busted my cage!' Gene gushed indignantly. 'Gene,' I reminded. 'You had your turn. Vincent?' 'I had to let it go,' he said, his eyes hopefully on mine. 'He wouldn't, and it-it wanted to get out-the ground squirrel.' His eyes lost their hopefulness before mine. 'It wasn't yours,' I reminded. 'It wasn't his either!' His eyes blazed. 'It belonged to itself! He had no right!' 'I caught it!' Gene blazed back. 'Gene! Be still or I'll send you outside!' Gene subsided, muttering. 'You didn't object to Ruth's hamster being in a cage.' 'Cage' and 'math' seemed trying to equate in my mind. 'That's because it was a cage beast,' he said, fingering the taped hand again. 'It didn't know any better. It didn't care.' His voice tightened. 'The ground squirrel did. It would have killed itself to get out. I-I just had to-' To my astonishment, I saw tears slide down his cheek as he turned his face away from me. Wordlessly I handed him a tissue from the box on my desk. He wiped his face, his fingers trembling. 'Gene?' I turned to him. 'Anything more?' 'Well, gollee! It was mine! And I liked it! It-it was mine!' 'I'll trade you,' said Vincent. 'I'll trade you a white rat in a real neat aluminum cage. A pregnant one, if you like. It'll have four or five babies in about a week.' 'Gollee! Honest?' Gene's eyes were shining. 'Vincent?' I questioned him. 'We have some at home,' he said. 'Mr. Wellerk at MEL gave me some when we came. They were surplus. Mother says I may trade if his mother says okay.' 'She won't care!' cried Gene. 'Us kids have part of the barn for our pets, and if we take care of them, she doesn't care what we have. She don't even ever come out there! Dad checks once in a while to be sure we're doing a decent job. They won't care:' 'Well, you have your mother write a note saying you may have the rat, and Vincent, if you're sure you want to trade, bring the rat tomorrow and we'll consider the affair ended.' I reached for my hand bell. 'Well, scoot, you two. Drinks and rest room, if necessary. It's past bell time now.' Gene scooted and I could hear him yelling, 'Hey! I getta white rat-' Vincent was at the door when I stopped him with a question. 'Vincent, did your mother know before you came to school that you were going to let the ground squirrel go?' 'No, ma'am. I didn't even know Gene had it.' 'Then she didn't suggest you trade with Gene.' 'Yes, ma'am, she did,' he said reluctantly. 'When?' I asked, wondering if he was going to turn out to be a twisted child after all. 'When you were out getting Gene. I called her and told her.' He smiled his tentative lip-smile. 'She gave me fits for fighting and suggested Gene might like the rat.. I like it, too, but I have to make up for the ground squirrel.' He hesitated. I said nothing. He left. 'Well!' I exploded my held breath out. 'Ananias K. Munchausen! Called his mother, did he? And no phone closer than MONSTER MERCANTILE! But still-!' I was puzzled. 'It didn't feel like a lie!' Next afternoon after dismissal time I sighed silently. I was staring moodily out the window where the lonely creaking of one swing signified that Vincent, as well as I, was waiting for his mother to appear. Well, inevitable, I guess. Send a taped-up child home, you're almost sure to an irate parent back. And Vincent had been taped up! Still was, for that matter. I hadn't heard the car. The creaking of the swing stopped abruptly, and I heard Vincent's happy calling voice. I watched the two of them come up onto the porch, Vincent happily clinging. 'My mother, Teacher,' he said, 'Mrs. Kroginold.' 'Good afternoon, Miss Murcer.' Mrs. Kroginold was small, dark haired and bright eyed. 'You wait outside, erring man-child!' She dismissed him with a spat on his bottom. 'This is adult talk.' He left, his small smile slanting back over his shoulder a little anxiously. Mrs. Kroginold settled comfortably in the visitor's chair I had already pulled up beside my desk. 'Prepared, I see,' she sighed. 'I suppose I should have come sooner and explained Vincent.' 'He is a little unusual,' I offered cautiously. 'But he didn't impress me as the fighting kind.' 'He isn't,' said Mrs. Kroginold. 'No, he's-um-unusual in plenty of other ways, but he comes by it naturally. It runs in the family. We've moved around so much since Vincent's been in school that this is the first time I've really felt I should explain him. Of course, this is also the first time he ever knocked anyone out. His father could hardly
