Burglars could have a fine day of it in Goodhue on the Fourth of July, with the whole population emptied into the town park, like so many checkers swept off a winning board. But the unscrupulous elements typically found more business in the heart of the celebration, the occasional out-of-town pickpocket making suspects of everyone’s visiting cousin or uncle.

After the All Join In Parade, eating was the primary occupation, with families and neighbors joining together to make huge smorgasbord picnics and kids roaming from one blanket to the next to find the best fare.

This year the Buttons got to the park late and had to squeeze themselves between the Floyds and the Novaks on the outer edge, nearly on top of the railroad tracks. There were advantages to this spot — they’d feel the ground rumble if a train were approaching, and the rise of the hill gave them a good view of the goings-on.

Tugs pushed her potato salad around her plate with her fork. Her stomach was tight with dread. She had to tell Ned, but not here, with their mothers listening.

Tugs saw a Panama bob through the crowd, pausing for a minute here, a minute there, and covering the grounds like a bee collecting nectar from a field of daffodils.

“Come on, Ned,” Tugs said. She set her plate on the ground, where the Floyds’ three-legged dog, Lulu, could clean it for her.

“Where are we going?” asked Ned, jogging to keep up with her. “I don’t want to get worn out before the race.”

“We’re going to see what Harvey Moore is up to.”

“Why?”

“We just are.”

“But the race is going to start soon.”

“Don’t worry.”

As they drew up behind Harvey, Tugs slowed and held out her arm to stop Ned.

“Let’s just follow him for a little ways.”

“But . . .” said Ned.

“Shhh.”

Harvey was unaware of his shadows. He and the Perkins were engrossed in conversation.

“And all we need to bring this venture to Goodhue is one hundred prepaid annual subscribers and thirty advertising commitments. I have a line on a used press that the seller will part with for a modest down payment and throw in the paper to boot. Prominent on the front page of the first issue will be the names of each of the founding subscribers.” Harvey painted a swath in the air with his hand.

“Franklin and Evelyn Perkins,” he said grandly. “Imagine it. Bold print. Fourteen-point sans serif type. In fact, if you are one of the first twenty-five subscribers to the Goodhue Progress, I could make that eighteen-point and put your name at the top of the list.”

Mrs. Perkins clapped her hands. “Franklin!” she exclaimed. “Fancy what Wilma will say when she sees our name in the paper. I always told her I’d be somebody, and she didn’t believe me. Thinks she’s so high-class, living over there in Iowa City. Imagine. A daily. Right here in Goodhue. With our names on it.”

“Well, Mother,” said Mr. Perkins. Even though their children were grown, he still called his wife Mother. “I don’t know that we’ve got enough news for a daily, but I suppose a few dollars to impress Wilma . . . I don’t have that much cash on me at the moment, as you can imagine, but I could bring it . . .”

“No, no,” said Harvey. “I’ll come to you. Just write your address here next to your commitment signature, and if you have any cash for down payment . . .”

“Progress,” said Mr. Perkins as he wrote. “Now, that’s a name.” He dug in his pocket and handed Harvey a bill.

“Thank you, Mr. Perkins. Mrs. Perkins,” said Harvey. “You’re investing in Goodhue. You’re investing in progress.” He shook both their hands before moving on.

“See?” whispered Ned. “Mr. Moore is for progress. And he said he’d help me with catching and tossing. So leave him alone.”

“I guess,” said Tugs. “It’s just that progress seems to cost an awful lot.”

Tugs saw Aggie just then and turned to Ned.

“Meet me back at the blanket, OK? I have something to do.”

Ned wove his way back to the Buttons as Tugs dodged toddlers and mothers and found her way to Aggie.

“Tugs!” cried Aggie. “I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s nearly time for the three-legged.”

“I haven’t told Ned yet,” Tugs confessed.

“You haven’t?”

“I tried, but . . .”

“Come on, then,” said Aggie briskly. “Let’s find him a partner.” Aggie dragged Tugs by the arm over to the sprawl of the Stump gathering, under the center oak with the low-hanging branches. A jumble of squat Stump children tumbled from the tree and landed in a pile.

“Which one of you is in Ned Button’s grade?” Aggie demanded.

“Ralph,” said Tugs, marveling at Aggie’s ability to unravel a knot, while Tugs herself had spent days letting this dilemma pick at her.

Ralph popped up from the bottom of the pile.

“Who wants to know?”

“You’re racing the three-legged with Ned,” said Aggie. “Come on, it’s nearly time.” Aggie’s tone was commanding, and despite himself, Ralph Stump followed the girls.

“I ask Ned every year and he always says he has a partner,” whined Ralph. “He’s not going to want to race with me.”

“Sure he wants to race with you,” said Tugs, catching Aggie’s enthusiasm. “He just thinks you’re too fast and he wouldn’t have a chance to keep up with you. Ask him again.”

“But —” Ralph panted, trying to keep up with the long-legged girls, but they had sprinted away and were already at the blanket, prepping Ned.

“Ned, Ralph Stump really wants to race with you,” Aggie said. “So I said I’d race with Tugs.”

Ned stared. Aggie Millhouse knew his name. Aggie Millhouse was talking to him. He grinned.

“W-w-what?” he stammered.

Tugs rolled her eyes. “Aggie said she’d race with me so you can race with Ralph.”

Ralph caught up then. He was breathing too hard to talk and just raised his hand to Ned before flopping on the ground.

They heard Mr. Floyd’s trumpet blast announcing the start of the afternoon’s events.

Aggie grabbed Ralph’s arm and pulled him up. “Do you two want to miss the race altogether?”

The boys didn’t have a chance to consider their new partnership. They set off after the girls.