“So I loaned Duke to the Dogs for Defense.” He set down his notes to pick up the encyclopedia. “This is a picture of a German shepherd.” He turned the page. “And this is a Doberman pinscher. Those are two of the Army’s favorite dogs.” He flipped the page again. “But I read a story about a dog like this” — he pointed to a picture of a Scottish terrier — “who’s the mascot for an air squadron. His name is Mac and he’s logged over two hundred hours of flying time.”
“Nifty!” Marty exclaimed.
“Some of the dogs were trained to guard places like Boeing —”
Marty interrupted. “There’s a dog named Sparky that my dad sees when he works the night shift.”
Mrs. Thornton pursed her lips. “That’s a wonderful contribution, Marty. But do wait your turn, please.”
“Sorry.” Marty ducked his head.
Hobie continued. “Like I said, some dogs stayed here. But Duke got placed with the Marines. His handler, Private Marvin Corff, wrote me that they’ve finished their training at Camp Lejeune and are heading for California.” Hobie paused to catch his breath. “So that’s about it on Dogs for Defense.”
“I think it’s wonderful, what you’re doing for the Marines.” Mrs. Thornton used her handkerchief again.
“Well, Duke’s doing the work, not me.” Hobie folded his notes back up and slipped them in his pocket. “But I’m glad he’s in California. Not in the war somewhere.”
“Maybe you could bring him to school when he comes back,” Catherine suggested.
“Dogs are not generally allowed at school,” said Mrs. Thornton.
The class groaned its disappointment.
Mrs. Thornton held up her hand. “But I would imagine exceptions could be made for war heroes.”
“Oh, goody!” Millie Swenson and two other girls jumped up and down in their seats.
Hobie sat down. Very fast.
He was even more embarrassed at lunch, when Catherine walked up to where he was sitting at the boys’ table and whapped him on the shoulder. “I’m not mad at you anymore for giving Duke away,” she said. “It was really brave.”
“Stupid’s more like it,” Mitch said.
“Oh, grow up, Mitch.” Catherine made a face at him, then stomped off to the girls’ table.
Mitch speared a canned peach slice with his fork. “At least I know what it means when a Marine is sent to California.”
Hobie folded the flaps back on his milk carton. “What are you talking about?”
Mitch said one word, “Pacific.”
“What?” Hobie stopped in mid-fold.
“California means one thing.” Mitch slurp-swallowed the peach. “They’re headed for the Pacific. One of those islands that isn’t even a dot on the globe.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Guam. Tarawa. Something like that.”
An ache started deep in Hobie’s stomach. Only the night before, he’d seen a headline on the front page of the Seattle Daily Times, about the Marines “carrying the fight” to the Japanese on Tarawa and Truk islands.
“You don’t know that,” Max said. He turned toward Hobie. “Don’t listen to him,” he said.
Hobie caught Preston’s eye across the table. “Is Mitch right? Do you think they’re going there?”
Preston ducked his head, but before he could say anything, Mitch answered. “They’re Marines,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Hobie pushed the milk carton away, sick because he knew Mitch was right. Now, because of what he’d done, Duke was going to be in the war. Fighting! In the Pacific! Why had he listened to Mr. Gilbert? Mr. Rasmussen? Why had he fallen for all that business about doing his part, being a good home-front soldier?
Hobie didn’t hear much of anything else the rest of the day. June had Brownies, so he walked home by himself. The soles of his shoes slapped out a rhythm against the pavement. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
How could he have done that to Duke? His best friend. Duke would have done anything to protect Hobie, to keep him safe. Hobie was such a lousy friend; he not only didn’t keep Duke safe, he put him in danger.
Hobie was mad enough to throw a rock through Mr. Rasmussen’s window. Lots of rocks.
Not that he’d really do it, but it felt awfully good to think about it. Hobie bent down to pick one up. Next to it was a penny. Heads’ side up. “Find a penny, pick it up. All day long, you’ll have good luck.”
Hobie put the penny in his pocket. He could use some good luck.
Because no matter what, Duke was not going to war.
Hobie was going to get him home.
With a lacy handkerchief pressed to her nose, Mrs. Thornton bid her fifth graders farewell. “I will never forget any of you,” she said. “Please come see me next year.” She was so sincere that even Ervin Malk, who’d never turned in a lick of schoolwork, said he would.
“Maybe I’ll see you at the playfield,” Catherine said to Hobie as he gathered his gear from the cloakroom. “We could play baseball.”
“If I’m not helping my uncle, that’d be great,” Hobie said.
“It’s a deal!” Catherine punched him on the arm. “See you around, Hobie! You, too, Max.” Max wasn’t quick enough to sidestep Catherine’s punch, either.
“She’s strong for a girl,” Max said, rubbing his arm.
“She’s strong period,” said Hobie. “See you later, Max.”
June was in especially high spirits. “Look!” She showed Hobie a big blue ribbon, imprinted with gold: First Grade Top Speller. “Miriam got one just like it,” she said. “Teacher said it’s the first time there’s ever been a tie.”
Hobie could smell chocolate cake half a block from home.
June picked up the scent, too. “Red Velvet!” she said, skipping ahead.
And she was right.
“I had enough sugar ration points for an end-of-the-school-year cake,” Mom said.
Hobie stuck his finger in the mixing bowl. Mom’s special fudge frosting!
“Can we have a piece right now?” June asked.
Mom clucked her tongue. “No, you may not, silly goose.” She gave the frosting another stir, plopped some on top of the cake, and began to spread it around. “I invited Auntie Ellen and the boys for dinner. We’ll celebrate with them.”
“Mo-ommy!” June flopped onto a kitchen chair. “No fair.”
Mom held up the frosting-covered spatula and pointed to the sampler on the kitchen wall. The one that said, Friends double our joys and halve our sorrows.
“That’s about friends.” June rested her cheek on the tabletop. “Not relatives.”
Mom handed the spatula to June. “Do you want to help me frost the cake?”
June perked right up. Hobie breathed in deep of the good chocolate smell. That, and one lousy piece of cake, would be all he’d get once his cousins arrived.
“Did Auntie Ellen say when Uncle Tryg would be back?” Hobie asked. He hadn’t forgotten about Dad asking him to help with the boat.
“Sounds like in about two more weeks,” Mom said. “The fishing’s been pretty good up north.”
Hobie couldn’t wait to write Dad to tell him how he’d helped on the Lily Bess. “Is it okay if I go for a bike ride?” Hobie asked.
“Can we put a candle on the cake?” June asked Mom. “It’s Kitty’s birthday.”
While they rummaged around in drawers, looking for a birthday candle, Hobie took off on his bike. Even though he’d been out of school for less than an hour, he found himself heading back that way.
It turned out he wasn’t the only one who wasn’t quite ready to leave fifth grade behind. There were about a dozen kids on the playground, circling around Catherine.
“Hey, Hobie.” She waved him over. “We’re going to play some baseball.”
Hobie skidded his bike to a stop, dropping it at the edge of the circle of kids. Catherine picked him for her team, along with Marty and Preston and a couple of fourth-grade girls.
Catherine was kind of bossy, but she could pitch. Besides, it
was her ball. Marty brought the bat, and Preston wore a practically brand-new JC Higgins glove on his right hand.
One of the fourth graders stepped up to bat. She was so skinny she could hardly keep the bat off her shoulder.
“Batter-batter-batter,” Marty chattered at her from second base.
“Easy out!” called another kid.
Preston stood right on first base, punching his hand into his glove. Hobie could tell Preston would’ve been a lot happier if they were all in the library, looking something up in the encyclopedia. But he was trying.
Hobie played the field. The entire field. There weren’t enough kids for three outfielders. Besides, it was only a pickup game. He didn’t imagine he’d get many balls his way. Especially not from this batter.
“Strike one!” the catcher called.
The fourth-grade girl waggled the bat around.
“You can do it, Cookie!” her friend called.
“Yeah, Kooky, you can do it!” Marty hollered.
Cookie stuck her chin out, waiting for Catherine’s pitch. She stepped forward and swung.
Thwack! The ball sailed over Catherine’s head, straight for Hobie. He poured on the speed to get to the ball, which was dropping, dropping, dropping. He dived, headfirst, arms outstretched, hands cupped up.
The ball bounced behind him.
“Run, Cookie!” her friend yelled. “Run!”
Cookie dropped the bat and ran. She rounded first before Hobie got himself upright and grabbed the ball. She was safe at second.
Hobie tossed the ball to Catherine. “Sorry,” he said.
“For what?” Catherine slapped the ball into her glove. “This is only a game!”
Cookie hopped up and down like second base was a trampoline. “I did it!” she called.
Hobie jogged back out to the field. While he was standing there, waiting for Catherine to pitch to Cookie’s friend, he saw Max ride by on his bike. Hobie waved at him and Max waved back. He had a canvas shopping bag slung over his back. Hobie hoped that didn’t mean more pigs’ feet.
Cookie’s friend struck out, and so did the next batter.
Catherine and Marty got hits when it was their ups, but neither scored. After a few more innings, Catherine’s mother pulled up to the curb and tapped on the horn of their DeSoto.
“I have to go,” Catherine said. “Sorry.” The other pitcher handed her the ball, and they shook hands. “We should do this again,” Catherine called as she jogged for the car. “Bye!”
Kids started heading for home. Hobie wiped his sweaty face, then got a long drink at the drinking fountain.
“See you around,” he called to Marty and Preston. They were headed in the opposite direction.
As he rode home, Hobie realized he’d been so busy with baseball, he hadn’t given one thought to how he was going to get Duke home. He thought about a comment Mrs. Thornton had written on his report card: Hobie is an excellent problem solver.
He stood up on his pedals and coasted a ways. If Mrs. Thornton said it, it must be so.
He turned up his street. There were cousins and chocolate cake waiting.
There was always tomorrow to hatch a new plan.
Hobie tucked a peanut butter sandwich inside his baseball glove and hung it from the handlebars. Nearly every day, after weeding and watering the Victory garden, he’d ridden his bike to the school. And every day there was a bunch of kids gathered, ready to play ball. Sometimes they hit around until there were enough for two teams. Then they played until three, when the guys with paper routes had to leave to pick up their papers.
Hobie wasn’t sure how many more ball games he could make. Uncle Tryg was due home within the week, and who knew how much help he’d want with the Lily Bess. Dad’s last letter had included a list of ways Hobie could pitch in. Don’t wait for Tryg to ask you to do something, he’d written. If you see a job to do, do it. Hobie hoped he wouldn’t let Dad — or Uncle Tryg — down.
Riding to the school yard, Hobie wondered if they’d have enough for two teams today. The teams shifted around a bit depending on who showed up, but Catherine was always one of the captains. She brought the baseball. And she usually picked Hobie for her team.
Hobie counted heads as he coasted across the school yard to the backstop. Fifteen already! Enough for two teams.
Cookie and her friend Nina showed up with a bunch of other kids from their grade.
“We should play fourth against fifth,” Marty suggested.
“You mean fifth against sixth,” Catherine corrected. “We’re officially sixth graders now.”
“Right.” Marty tapped the side of his head. “In the summer, I block school stuff out of my brain!”
“Me, too,” said the other captain, Mike Feeney.
“Not me,” said Preston Crane. “I miss school.”
“You would,” Marty groaned. “Let’s just play ball.”
They divvied up the teams into the two grades and played all morning.
The almost-sixth graders beat the almost-fifth graders, but only by a run.
“Let’s take a lunch break.” Marty plunked down on the grass. “I’m starving.”
“Glad to meet you, Starving,” said Hobie.
“Very funny.” Marty flopped onto his back. “I’m thirsty, too. Anyone else want to ride over to Lee’s for a soda?”
The other kids were fine with the water fountain, so it was just Hobie and Marty who went to Lee’s. Hobie had a dime. He picked out a grape soda for himself.
“Do you think Catherine would rather have grape or root beer?” Hobie asked Marty. Since Catherine brought the ball every day, he thought she deserved a soda, too.
“Root beer.” Marty picked out a Bubble Up for himself. “Hey, you want to come over later? Listen to Hop Harrigan with me?”
“Sure!” Hobie thought about all the times he and Scooter had sat in Hobie’s kitchen, waiting to hear what Hop was going to do that day. If the story was a dud, Scooter added his own sound effects. And not always polite ones. But Hobie laughed, no matter what.
Mrs. Lee took their change. “No joke today?” she asked.
Hobie thought for a second. What was the one he’d just read? “Okay. What do you get when you cross a sheepdog with a rose?”
Mrs. Lee wrinkled up her forehead, thinking. Marty did, too.
“I give,” Marty said, popping the cap off his soda bottle.
“Some kind of flower?” Mrs. Lee guessed.
Hobie grinned. “A collie-flower.”
She shook her head. Marty coughed on his drink.
“I didn’t say it was a good joke,” Hobie said.
“Any joke is a good joke,” Mrs. Lee declared. “A daily chuckle is as good as vitamins.”
As they headed out the door, Max was coming in, working hard on a piece of gum.
“Hi!” Hobie hadn’t really seen Max, except for when he rode by the school yard every now and again.
Max blew a black bubble. Black Jack gum. The same kind Hobie liked. “What are you guys doing?”
“Playing baseball over at the school,” Marty answered.
Hobie remembered seeing a baseball mitt hanging off Max’s bike once. “Do you want to come?”
Max shrugged. “I don’t know.” But he sounded like he did know.
“Go along,” Mrs. Lee said. “It’d be good for you.”
“We could use another guy,” said Marty.
“Okay.” Max pulled a shopping list from his pocket. “As soon as I take these things home to Ma, I’ll be over.”
“See you soon,” Hobie said.
Back at the school yard, he opened the soda bottles on his belt buckle, then handed Catherine the root beer.
“Wow, thanks.” She took a big swallow. “My favorite.”
Marty elbowed Hobie. “Told you,” he said.
“We ran into Max,” Hobie said. “He might be coming over.”
“Dibs!” Catherine said. “Besides, that’ll even up the teams.”
T
he other captain spit in the dirt at her feet. “We’re still going to beat you.”
“Says who?” Catherine let go with a prodigious belch for emphasis.
“Catherine!” Cookie giggled. “That’s not very ladylike.”
Catherine answered with another belch.
That led to a burping contest that Marty easily won.
“Bubble Up,” he told Catherine, letting her in on his trade secret. “Works every time.”
“Ready to go?” asked the other captain.
“Max isn’t here yet,” Catherine said.
“We should probably start without him,” said Marty. “In case he can’t come.”
“Let’s wait a few more minutes,” suggested Hobie. He threw the wax paper wrapper from his sandwich into the garbage. “There he is!”
Max cycled toward them, cheeks red. “I got here as fast as I could,” he gasped.
“Let’s go.” Catherine held a bat out to the other captain. He gripped it with one hand, and she snugged her hand next to his. They went back and forth like that until they ran out of bat. Catherine’s hand was on top.
“We choose last ups,” she said.
Max joined Hobie in the field.
The score went back and forth, back and forth. But in the top of the ninth, their team was ahead by one run. With two outs, Cookie stepped up to bat.
“Batter can’t hit!” Marty hollered.
Hobie looked over at Max. “Yes, she can,” he said. “Heads up!”
Max pounded his fist into his glove, crouching down to the ready position.
“What’s that out in the field?” a familiar voice hollered. “Not a pair of dice, but a pair of dunces.”
Mitch Mitchell strolled up behind the backstop, flanked by a couple of seventh graders Hobie had seen around.
“That’s so funny, I forgot to laugh,” Catherine said.
“Don’t listen to him,” Marty called over his shoulder to Max and Hobie.
Max eased up out of his crouch.
“Marty’s right,” Hobie called. “Let’s keep our heads in the game.”