When he unknotted the rope and opened the carton, two pairs of imploring eyes gazed up at him. They were domestics with luxuriant fur - one orange, one tabby - curled together for mutual protection. He closed the chest and went indoors. Away from their ingratiating presence he could think intelligently. Who had dropped them off? It would be someone who knew he was an ailurophile … someone who knew where he lived… someone who knew he was away from home on that particular morning. Celia Robinson fitted the profile, but she would be more forthright. Yet… she had a large acquaintance, one of whom might have two waifs to give away.
He phoned her. “Celia, did you leave anything in my sea chest this morning?”
“No, Chief, but I’ll have some berry tarts later in the day.”
“Did you see a vehicle entering or leaving the woods?”
“Is this another investigation?” she asked enthusiastically.
“Not exactly. Someone left two cats in the sea chest with a note saying they need a good home.”
“Oh, my! Kittens or full-grown? Most people want kittens.”
“Full-grown, with nice fur, soulful eyes, appealing personalities.”
“Ohh! I wish I could take them, but Wrigley wouldn’t like it. I’ll ask around, if anyone wants to adopt them.”
“Are you going to the game tonight?”
“Oh, yes! Mr. O’Dell is taking me. He’s one of the pinch spellers. I’m going to root for the Diggers.”
Qwilleran hung up and said aloud, “How do I get mixed up in these animal-adoption cases? Last winter, it was a schnauzer!”
“Yow!” came a voice from the coffee table. Koko was keeping one of the large books warm. He stirred, raised his hindquarters, and lowered his forequarters, pawing the book jacket.
“No, no! That’s a library book!” Qwilleran scolded… and then he had an inspiration. He grabbed the book and his car keys and hurried to his van, stopping only to pick up the box of cats, Five minutes later he was at the library, heading for the stairs to the mezzanine, He barged into Polly’s office and deposited the box on her desk.
She rolled her chair back in dismay. “What’s this?”
“The answer to your problem,” he said as he opened the box. “Books and cats belong together. These two need a home, and the library needs a homey touch. Abracadabra!”
As he spoke, the two cats rose: and stretched, then turned their large, wondering eyes on the librarian and mewed delicately.
Qwilleran said, “They even have the right kind of voice for a library cat.”
“Honestly, Qwill, I don’t know what to say!”
“Don’t say anything. Just let them loose among the stacks, and they’ll win over your alienated volunteers and patrons.”
“How shall I explain them?”
“Just say the Klingenschoen think tank in Chicago heard about the problem and prescribed them as a catalyst for change. I’ll go to the pet shop for a commode, dishes, and food,” He started to leave.
“Wait a minute! What are their names?”
“No one knows. Have a contest to name them.”
“Don’t forget litter for the commode!” she called after him.
Long before game time, hundreds of fans started assembling on the high-school parking lot. They came in cars, vans, pickups, recreation vehicles, and school buses. Eighteen followers of the Diggers piled out of three limousines usually used for more solemn occasions. Several bank employees arrived in an armored truck, carrying picket signs that supported the Moneybags. Placards on long sticks declared allegiance to favorite teams: “Eat ‘Em Up, Chowheads” and “Muckers Don’t Muck Up!” Photographers from the Lockmaster and Moose County papers and the TV crew from Down Below were kept busy.
When the doors opened, the crowd surged into the auditorium and gym. Backstage the spellers in T-shirts and baseball caps grouped in teams of three. Officials wore black T-shirts with white letters designating their function: coach, pitcher, umpire, and timekeeper. Pinch spellers were herded into the Green Room. Two stage managers checked and double-checked.
About ten minutes before game time, Sarah Plensdorf reported to Hixie Rice that Phoebe Sloan had not arrived and could not be reached by phone - anywhere.
Hixie said firmly, “Well, the entertainment begins in ten minutes, and if she isn’t here by that time, we’ll call in a pinch speller… Wetherby, would you go to the Green Room and see who’s willing to pinch-spell?”
Since the Butterfly Girl’s T-shirt was extra-small, a DAUBER card was lettered-just in case - to hang around the neck of the substitute. Hixie, who saw the bright side of every cloud, stated that an emergency substitution would only add to the excitement. Already the uproar on the other side of the blue curtain :was deafening. It fused the jabbering of fans, the shouts of hysterical partisans, and the cries of hawkers selling peanuts, Cracker Jack, and scorecards. Wetherby remarked that half the town would be hoarse as bullfrogs for a week! Dr. Diane predicted an epidemic of hearing-impairment.
At seven-thirty it was announced on the loud speakers that Dr. Prelligate of Moose County Community College would pinch-spell for No. 79 on the scorecard. There was a roar of approval, but Qwilleran wondered how Phoebe’s parents would feel, sitting in the auditorium and questioning her absence. Then the Pickax barbershop quartet - in striped blazers and straw boaters - marched smartly from the wings and lined up in front of the blue curtain to sing a tongue-twisting parody of a campfire favorite:
Old MacDonald had a farm, A E I O U, And on that farm he learned to spell, A E I O U, With an E-I here and an I-E there, Here an A, there an 0, everywhere a U-U. Old MacDonald had a farm, A E I O U,
With a double-B here and a double-C there, Here a D, there a T, everywhere a G-G. With a double-M here and a double-N there, I Here an L, there an F, everywhere an X-X. Old MacDonald had a farm…
It went on and on until the blue curtain parted, revealing the ten colorful banners and thirty-one empty chairs, while the quartet sang Take me out to the spell game. Then the spellers jogged on stage, each greeted by cheers and whistles. As a curtain-raiser it was, Qwilleran had to admit, impressive!
“Ladies and gentlemen, the National Anthem!”
Wetherby Goode announced. Everyone rose. Everyone sang.
When the last notes faded and the fans reseated themselves, the mayor stepped into the spotlight and pitched a word to the audience: literacy. He thanked them for supporting a program that would teach adults to read and write, ending with “Play ball!”
In the first inning, Qwilleran pitched the first word to the Daubers: cat. There was a hush in the auditorium and a pause onstage. Then Dr. Prelligate stepped briskly to the mike and spelled it - correctly, according to the umpire’s thumb. There were murmurs of bewilderment among the fans.
One by one the teams were called upon to spell three-letter words, until the Muckers took their turn at the plate. Qwilleran pitched the word: antidisestablishmentarianism. Two adults and one nine-year-old went into a huddle, and Culvert stepped to the mike and rattled off the twenty-eight letters. There was laughter, then applause, and the fans relaxed for the serious spelling: ambidextrous, kaleidoscope, peripatetic.
In the third inning the Oilers were sent to the showers. The Ladders were the next to go, then the Nailheads. At the seventh-inning stretch, only the Diggers, Pills, and Hams were left on the spelling field, and the Diggers struck out with xenophobia and onomatopoeia.
The two remaining teams were scrappy. The fans screamed and pumped their placards. The Pills’ last chance was vicissitude, and they missed, but the Hams got it right.
The blue curtain closed, and all ten teams marched across the apron for their final acclamation, with the mayor presenting the silver pennant to the theater club’s Hams.