The Fox Steals Home Read Online Free Page A

Dad warning you about
     that?
    He finished his breakfast and put the dishes into the sink. Then he stared at them a while, pondering whether to wash them
     or not. One part of his brain told him he didn’t have to, the other part advised him that he should.
    He got to thinking about his mother struggling all day to make the right decision about a work problem, then worrying that
     she hadn’t made the correct decision after all. And he grinned.
Oh, sure,
he thought.
I know that mother of mine better than anybody else does. She would never worry that any decision was wrong.
    He did the dishes.
    When he was finished, he went into the livingroom and headed for the CD player. He’d put on a CD, he thought, and then switch on the TV to get the baseball scores.
    His attention was drawn to the ashtray on the coffee table. He had forgotten about his mother’s visitor, but apparently whoever
     it was smoked, too, just as his mother did. He stared at the stubs of two cigarettes, one that he recognized as his mother’s
     brand, the other, which was different. It had a tan band around the tip of it.
    Suddenly he was Sherlock Holmes investigating the clue of the tan-banded cigarette stub.
Come on, Watson. Let’s take a closer look and see what’s elementary about it. Shall we, old boy?
    He stepped closer to the coffee table, and made a unique discovery. Both stubs had lipstick stains on them. Well, at least
     it wasn’t a man. That would leave out the lawyer, Mr. Ferris. But that was as far as his investigative powers were able to
     go. He had determined that his mother’s visitor was a woman: that was all.
    For Mom’s sake,
he thought,
I just wish it wasn’t Mrs. Trundle. That old bag of wind would talk the ears off of anyone who would listen to her.And Mom would listen to her even though she would never take Mrs. Trundle seriously.
    Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was nine-thirty. News time, followed by the baseball scores, would be coming on shortly.
     He didn’t care about the news, but he had to listen to the scores. Without them you could throw your TV out the window.
    At twenty-five minutes of ten he turned on the TV, heard the last bit about a railroad train derailment somewhere in Illinois,
     then the all-important, team-by-team scores in both the American and National leagues. The Yanks topped Boston. The Orioles
     downed the Brewers. The Oakland A’s just eked out a victory over the Angels.
    He kept staring at the brightly lit screen, looking at it as if hypnotized, while he listened to the rundown of the scores.
    “The Mets three, the Cardinals two. Los Angeles eight, the San Diego Padres one.” The voice droned on, clear, monotonous.
    His thoughts drifted to yesterday’s game, and he saw himself hitting the old apple, getting on base, and sliding into second.
    Man, he enjoyed running the bases, and making that steal. There was something especially challenging about it. Hey, Joe Morgan!
     Lou Brock! Watch out! There’s a new base stealer on the way up!
    “The Reds took it on the chin, five to four, from the Houston Astros, after winning four straight —”
    “Oh, no!” Bobby cried, slamming his fists against the air.
    After a while it was over, and he shut the set off. He took a quart bottle of orange juice out of the refrigerator, poured
     himself a glass, and drank it. Returning the bottle to the refrigerator, he wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve and picked
     up his baseball cap. Blue, long brimmed, it fit his head perfectly.
    He left the house, making sure that all the doors were locked and that the key to the side door was placed on the lamp beside
     it.
    Grandma Reenie and Grandpa Alex Morris lived on German Creek Road. To get to it, you had to go up the road for a mile or so,
     then turn off to the left for about another half mile. It was a long, tiresome walk. By the time Bobby arrived, he wished he had never started.
    “You oughta have a bike,” suggested Grandpa Alex, peering at Bobby