Ed’s bunk was expected to win the baseball game.
The foul-lines were marked with Israeli flags.
What right did he have to resent their using the symbol? It wasn’t engraved on his shield.
A child brandished a Pepsi, cheering for his side.
Breavman passed out hot dogs. He was glad he’d learned to suspect his Gentile neighbours of uncleanliness, not to believe in flags. Now he could apply that training to his own tribe.
A home run.
Send your children to the academies in Alexandria. Don’t be surprised if they come back Alexandrians.
Three cheers. Mazel tov.
Hello Canada, you big Canada, you dull, beautiful resources. Everybody is Canadian. The Jew’s disguise won’t work.
When it was Ed’s turn to umpire, Breavman walked across the field to the marsh and watched Martin kill mosquitoes. The tractor man knew him well because he often came to see Martin fulfil his mission.
The boy had killed over six thousand mosquitoes.
“I’ll kill some for you, Martin.”
“That won’t help my score.”
“Then I’ll start my own score.”
“I’ll beat you.”
Martin’s feet were wet. Some of the bites were definitely infected. He should send him back to the bunk, but he seemed to be enjoying himself so thoroughly. All his days were 99 per cent.
“I dare you to start your own score.”
As they accompanied their groups back to the campus Ed said, “Not only did you lose the game, Breavman, but you owe me five dollars.”
“What for?”
“Wanda. Last night.”
“Oh, God, the pool. I’d forgotten.”
He checked his journal and gratefully paid the money.