"This way!" she would insist. "No, that! Slow down! Stop! Over there, away from that floozy! Watch your step! Growl! Growl!"
Peter had no trouble growling. If an opportunity had presented itself, he probably would have been happy to bite as well.
They had slipped down along the beachfront and into the town through the back alleyways, dressed in their disguises, appearing big and tough enough that no one wanted anything to do with them. They had searched for some sign of Hook and quickly discovered that everyone was gravitating toward Pirate Square and the crocodile clock.
Now, approaching along the walkway, swaying and weaving like drunkards as they tried to keep upright on one another's shoulders, they could hear cheers and shouts. Ahead, dozens of pirates encircled the square. On reaching the back of the crowd, Peter mounted a barrel and peered curiously over the sea of heads.
He could scarcely believe his eyes. Pirate Square had been transformed into a baseball field!
Gone was the debris of countless nights of pirate revelry. Gone the pushcarts and jewelry stands. Gone the pickpockets and sleight-of-hand artists (or at least they were keeping out of sight). Everything and everyone had been pushed back to make space for the field. Neat white lines had been painted to indicate base paths and a batter's box. Fluffy satin pillows that fairly dripped with jewels had been set out as bases. Bleachers had been erected in the outfield, back between the ship hulks of the buildings, and even the crocodile tower was in use as a scoreboard.
But most amazing of all were the players-a whole team of pirates, every one of them dressed in a turn-of-the-century baseball uniform with PIRates lettered boldly across the front. They wore gloves and caps. A few wore spikes, although most had chosen to stay with boots. Some even carried pistols and daggers stuck in their belts.
Smee was on the mound-a rather narrow, oblong rise with a tombstone stuck at its back end-warming up with Jukes as catcher. Far out in the centermost section of the bleachers sat Hook, a buxom tavern wench at his side.
As Peter and the Lost Boys stared wide-eyed at the scene a gnarled little pirate streaked onto the field, snatched up the jeweled pillow that was serving as second base, and bolted for the crowd.
"Look out!" cried Smee from the mound. "He's stealing second!"
A bulky pirate acting as plate umpire took a step forward, pulled out a blunderbuss, and shot the thief dead in his tracks. Second base was retrieved and returned to its proper place.
"Play ball!" growled the umpire.
Peter and the Lost Boys were already making their way out to the bleachers. When they reached them, they abandoned their disguises and crept under the iron stanchions and wooden planking, keeping carefully back in the shadows and out of sight. When they had reached a position almost directly beneath Hook, they lifted their heads and peeked out.
Jack Banning was stepping up to the plate. He wore the same old-time uniform as the pirates and carried a peg leg as a bat. He was flushed with excitement, his smile huge with anticipation. He swung the peg leg confidently, eagerly.
Peter started to his feet and might have leaped right out onto the field and gone for his son, except that Hook suddenly shouted, "Jack, Jack lad, this is the ultimate makeup game. It makes up for all the games Daddy missed. Old Hook would never miss your game."
Peter flinched at the sneering way Hook referred to "Daddy."
Jack paused at the edge of the batter's box and waved brightly in acknowledgment. "This one's for you, Captain!"
"Tear the leather right off 'er!" Hook shouted back, laughing gaily. "Rip that bauble, son!"
Peter sagged back in disbelief. There was no disguising the camaraderie that existed between his son and Hook. There was no hiding from what he had seen in his son's face-the joy, the excitement, the anticipation. Jack was having fun. Jack and Hook together.
Hook led a sudden cheer as pirates seated in the bleachers to one side began to flip cards that flashed crude drawings of first Hook's face and then Jack's.
"Jack! Jack! Jack's our man! If he can't do it, no one can!"
The cards flipped again, and a huge message read: run home jack! Jack, standing at home plate with the peg leg gripped tightly in both hands, stared at the message in confusion, a hint of doubt creeping into his eyes. Smee paused, turned, saw the sign, dropped the ball with a gasp, and raced out to the stands, yelling and waving his hands.
Moments and a few bruised heads later, the order of the cards had been reversed to read: home run jack!
Smee stood poised on the pitching mound, eyeing Jack steadily. He held Jack's own autographed baseball, working it around in his fingers. Jack stepped into the batter's box and then out again. He scratched his head and adjusted his cap. On the field, all the pirates scratched their heads and adjusted their caps. Jack spat. The pirates spat. Jack tugged at his belt and the pirates tugged at theirs.
Jack stepped back into the batter's box, peg leg cocked. Smee straightened, ready for the first pitch.
"Hold on, Smee!" Hook yelled to his bosun. "I need a glove!"
He turned to the woman beside him, who gingerly unscrewed the captain's claw and replaced it with a glove. Hook beamed. The tavern wench placed the hook on the bleacher seat next to the captain.
And inches from Peter's face.
The eyes of the Lost Boys went wide. Never had there been such a glorious opportunity as this! They had come looking for a way to steal Hook's hook, and the hook had practically been presented to them on a platter! Take it, Peter! they mouthed, gesturing wildly, jumping up and down in excitement. Take it! Take it!
But Peter wasn't listening. He barely noticed the hook in front of him. His attention was focused entirely on his son, standing in the batter's box with his peg leg cocked and his face flushed and smiling.
Smee threw a ball, high and wide. Jack barely gave it a look. Smee threw a second ball, low and away. Jack was not tempted. He was all business now, all concentration.
Smee reared back and released.
It was a wicked, sweeping curveball.
No, Peter thought in incongruous dismay. He can't hit a curve ball!
Jack tensed, the peg leg came back an inch or two, and he swung.
Crack! He caught his prized baseball squarely on the fat part of the peg leg and sent it winging skyward. It continued to rise, sailing up and away, out of the ballpark, out of Pirate Square, out of the town itself, and completely out of sight. Never had a baseball been hit so far.
Hook jumped up, his eyes shining. "Did you see that!" he cried out. "Did you see it! Oh, my Jack! You hit the curveball. You did it! Jack, my son!"
Down the stands he bounded, flinging his glove into the air, calling out wildly. Jack was trotting around the bases, leaping and hooting every few steps, shaking every pirate's hand he passed. Hook caught up with him at home plate, lifted him up, and swung him around, both of them smiling and laughing ecstatically. Pirates appeared with a huge barrel marked "CrocAde" above a picture of a grinning crocodile and dumped the contents all over Jack. The entire town cheered wildly.
Hook hoisted Jack onto his shoulders, spun him about, and led the entire procession of players and fans back through the town in celebration.
Beneath the stands, Peter watched in shock, a single, terrible thought running through his head: He's having so much fun. I've never seen him have this much fun.
He turned then and stumbled away, forgetting everything that had brought him there, everything that he had come to do. The Lost Boys stared after him in astonishment. What was the matter with him? What was he doing?