stepped　in。　The　horseblankets　were　still

in　the　corner；　by　the　roque　set。　He　picked　up　four　of　them　—　they　smelled　musty　and

old　and　the　moths　certainly　had　been　having　a　free　lunch　—　and　then　he　paused。

One　of　the　rogue　mallets　was　gone。

（Was　that　what　he　hit　me　with？）

Well；　it　didn't　matter　what　he'd　been　hit　with；　did　it？　Still；　his　fingers

went　to　the　side　of　his　face　and　began　to　explore　the　huge　lump　there。　Six

hundred　dollars'　worth　of　dental　work　undone　at　a　single　blow。　And　after　all

（maybe　he　didn't　hit　me　with　one　of　those。　Maybe　one　got　lost。　Or　stolen。　Or

took　for　a　souvenir。　After　all）

it　didn't　really　matter。　No　one　was　going　to　be　playing　rogue　here　next

summer。　Or　any　summer　in　the　foreseeable　future。

No；　it　didn't　really　matter；　except　that　looking　at　the　racked　mallets　with

the　single　missing　member　had　a　kind　of　fascination。　He　found　himself　thinking

of　the　hard　wooden　whack！　of　the　mallet　head　striking　the　round　wooden　ball。　A

nice　summery　sound。　Watching　it　skitter　across　the

（bone。　blood。）

gravel。　It　conjured　up　images　of

（bone。　blood。）

iced　tea；　porch　swings；　ladies　in　white　straw　hats；　the　hum　of　mosquitoes；　and

（bad　little　boys　who　don't　play　by　the　rules。）

all　that　stuff。　Sure。　Nice　game。　Out　of　style　now；　but　。。。　nice。

〃Dick？〃　The　voice　was　thin；　frantic；　and；　he　thought；　rather　unpleasant。　〃Are

you　all　right；　Dick？　e　out　now。　Please！〃

（〃e　on　out　now　nigguh　de　massa　callin　youall。〃）

His　hand　closed　tightly　around　one　of　the　mallet　handles；　liking　its　feel。

（spare　the　rod；　spoil　the　child。）

His　eyes　went　blank　in　the　flickering；　fire…shot　darkness。　Really；　i