Nipper skipped cheerfully, enjoying the beautiful morning. The sky was clear, and the sun was shining. It felt good to be outside. He took in a deep breath of fresh air as he hopped over the hedge. What a great day.

As he headed up the drive to the Snoddgrass side porch, he noticed two adults looking out a window on the second floor. They smiled and waved at him. It was weird, but he didn’t care. Today was a great day. Today he was going to get his Yankees back.

Nipper reached out to knock on the screen door. Before he could, the inside door swung open and Missy Snoddgrass pushed the screen door out, forcing Nipper to jump back.

“Hello, Jeremy Bernard Spinner,” she said quickly. “Did you get a haircut recently?”

Nipper felt the patch where the math police’s flying blade had sliced his hair. Missy sure paid attention to details—especially when they were details about him getting attacked! He decided to ignore the question, and kept smiling.

“Okay, Missy,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s just pretend none of that yarn stuff happened. I’m here to make a deal with you.”

Missy folded her arms and stared at him.

Nipper reached into his pocket.

“This time, I know I’ve got something you’ll want,” he continued. “If you give me my Yankees back, you can keep this, and we can just…we can just…”

He fumbled in his pocket for a few seconds. Empty. He checked his other pocket. The big blue diamond was gone!

“Are you looking for something?” she asked, waving a walnut-sized gem.

“Hey! That’s mine!” Nipper cried.

“Not anymore,” said Missy, dropping the gem into the front pocket of her yellow-polka-dot blouse. “Besides, I’m not sure that embarrassing excuse for a baseball team is worth so much of your time and energy. They only have a few games to go until it all comes to an end—for good.”

“For good?” asked Nipper. “What does that mean—for good?”

Missy took a page from her pocket, unfolded it, and read.

“ ‘Major League Baseball, Rule number 1313, Section 13. Team liquidation,’ ” she read. “ ‘In the event that any team loses 150 games in a row, the club shall be canceled permanently. All of their bats shall be chopped up for firewood, and uniforms shall be donated to regional theaters for baseball-related musical productions.’ ”

“Liquidation? Firewood? Theater?” Nipper exclaimed. “Let me see those rules.”

He reached out to grab the page from her.

Missy pulled it back quickly and used her free hand to grab three of Nipper’s fingers. She twisted them, and a jolt of pain shot through his wrist.

“Ouch!” Nipper wailed.

Missy let go of his fingers and shoved him off the porch.

“If you get close to me again, Jeremy Bernard Spinner, more than a few rules are going to get broken,” she growled.

She paused and did a quick calculation in her head.

“Two hundred and six of them,” she snapped.

Missy pointed at the driveway.

“Now, get out of here!” she ordered.

Nipper looked up at the second floor of Missy’s house. The grown-ups in the window were smiling. The man was using his tie to wave at him. The woman held up a plate of cookies and nodded. This was strange and creepy…and there were cookies. But Nipper wasn’t interested right now. His Yankees were still gone.

He let out a long heavy sigh and lowered his head.

Nipper didn’t feel like hopping over the bushes. He trudged down the Snoddgrass driveway, turned right at the sidewalk, and slunk home.

When he got to the front door, he stopped and looked down. A large envelope lay on the doormat.

He picked it up and went inside.