Free The Stories of J.F. Powers (New York Review Books Classics) by J.F. Powers Page B

to the floor—that way he knew what he’d read and how far he had to go— and pulled the newspaper around his ears again. Before he went to dinner he would put the paper in order and wish out loud that other people would have the decency to do the same.
    Jamesie, back in his chair, granted himself one more chapter of Baseball Bill in the World Series . The chapters were running out again, as they had so many times before, and he knew, with the despair of a narcotic, that his need had no end.
    Baseball Bill, at fifty cents a volume and unavailable at the library, kept him nearly broke, and Francis Murgatroyd, his best friend . . . too stingy to go halves, confident he’d get to read them all as Jamesie bought them, and each time offering to exchange the old Tom Swifts and Don Sturdys he had got for Christmas—as though that were the same thing!
    Jamesie owned all the Baseball Bills to be had for love or money in the world, and there was nothing in the back of this one about new titles being in preparation. Had the author died, as some of them did, and left his readers in the lurch? Or had the series been discontinued—for where, after Fighting for the Pennant and In the World Series , could Baseball Bill go? Baseball Bill, Manager , perhaps. But then what?
    “A plot to fix the World Series! So that was it! Bill began to see it all . . . The mysterious call in the night! The diamond necklace in the dressing room! The scribbled note under the door! With slow fury Bill realized that the peculiar odor on the note paper was the odor in his room now! It was the odor of strong drink and cigar smoke! And it came from his midnight visitor! The same! Did he represent the powerful gambling syndicate? Was he Blackie Humphrey himself? Bill held his towering rage in check and smiled at his visitor in his friendly, boyish fashion. His visitor must get no inkling of his true thoughts. Bill must play the game—play the very fool they took him for! Soon enough they would discover for themselves, but to their everlasting sorrow, the courage and daring of Baseball Bill . . .”
    Jamesie put the book aside, consulted the batting averages in the Courier , and reread Ding Bell. Then, not waiting for dinner and certain to hear about it at supper, he ate a peanut butter sandwich with catsup on it, and left by the back door. He went down the alley calling for Francis Murgatroyd. He got up on the Murgatroyd gate and swung—the death-defying trapeze act at the circus—until Francis came down the walk.
    “Hello, Blackie Humphrey,” Jamesie said tantalizingly.
    “Who’s Blackie Humphrey?”
    “You know who Blackie Humphrey is all right.”
    “Aw, Jamesie, cut it out.”
    “And you want me to throw the World Series!”
    “Baseball Bill!”
    “In the World Series. It came yesterday.”
    “Can I read it?”
    Jamesie spoke in a hushed voice. “So you’re Blackie Humphrey?”
    “All right. But I get to read it next.”
    “So you want me to throw the World Series, Blackie. Is that it? Say you do.”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “Ask me again. Call me Bill.”
    “Bill, I want you to throw the World Series. Will you, Bill?”
    “I might.” But that was just to fool Blackie. Bill tried to keep his towering rage in check while feigning an interest in the nefarious plot. “Why do you want me to throw it, Blackie?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Sure you know. You’re a dirty crook and you’ve got a lot of dough bet on the other team.”
    “Uh, huh.”
    “Go ahead. Tell me that.”
    While Blackie unfolded the criminal plan Bill smiled at him in his friendly, boyish fashion.
    “And who’s behind this, Blackie?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Say it’s the powerful gambling syndicate.”
    “It’s them.”
    “Ah, ha! Knock the ash off your cigar.”
    “Have I got one?”
    “Yes, and you’ve got strong drink on your breath, too.”
    “Whew!”
    Blackie should have fixed him with his small, piglike eyes.
    “Fix me with your small,