"Anywhere," agreed Boley, leaning back in the deep
cushions and watching the room go around and around.
"Any time. 111 bat their ears off."
"Have another glass of wine, Boley," said the owner's
uncle, and he began to take things out of the black suit-
case.
Boley woke up with a pounding in his' head like Snider,
Mays and Mantle hammering Three-Eye League pitching.
He moaned and opened one eye.
Somebody blurry was holding a glass out to him. "Hurry
up. Drink this."
Boley shrank back. "I will not. That's what got me into
this trouble in the first place."
'Trouble? You're in no trouble. But the game's about
to start and you've got a hangover."
Ring a fire bell beside a sleeping Dalmation; sound the
Charge in the ear of a retired cavalry major. Neither will
respond more quickly than Boley to the words, "The
game's about to start."
He managed to drink some of the fizzy stuff in the
glass and it was a miracle; like a triple play erasing a
ninth-inning threat, the headache was gone. He sat up,
and the world did not come to an end. In fact, he felt
pretty good.
He was being rushed somewhere by the blurry man.
They were going very rapidly, and there were tail, bright
buildings outside. They stopped.
"We're at the studio," said the man, helping Boley out
of a remarkable sort of car.
"The stadium," Boley corrected automatically. He
looked around for the lines at the box office but there
didn't seem to be any.
"The studio. Don't argue all day, will you?" The man
was no longer so blurry. Boley looked at him and blushed.
He was only a little man, with a worried look to him, and
what he was wearing was a pair of vivid orange Bermuda
shorts that showed his knees. He didn't give Boley much
of a chance for talking or thinking. They rushed into a
building, all green and white opaque glass, and they were
met at a flimsy-looking elevator by another little man. "This
one's shorts were aqua, and he had a bright red cummer-
bund tied around his waist.
"This is him," said Boley's escort.
The little man in aqua looked Boley up and down.
"He's a big one. I hope to goodness we got a uniform to
fit him for the Series."
Boley cleared his throat. "Series?"
"And you're in it!" shrilled the little man in orange.
"This way to the dressing room."
Well, a dressing room was a dressing room, even if
