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Downriver a hundred yards the Boston and Montreal railroad tracks crossed the river on a high trestle. The tow truck would have to arrive soon for the Knights to make batting practice at Fenway.
    Harlan and the Riendeaus showed up with eight cases of Black Label in a blue wheelbarrow. Harlan eyed a notice tacked to a soft maple tree near the trash barrel: “Consumption of Alcoholic Beverages Prohibited within 100 Feet of National Monument.” Harlan peered inside the trash barrel, then turned it upside down and dumped some sandwich wrappers and empty pop bottles over the bank. He shouldered the barrel, carried it down to the river, and sozzled it out. He brought the barrel back up the bank, got out his church key, and began opening the bottles of Black Label and pouring their contents into the barrel.
    â€œWe’ll drink turn and turn about out of the water dipper,” Harlan explained. “In case anybody comes along.”
    Cousin Stub returned from the farmhouse to report that the Woodsville wrecker was down for transmission repairs. He’d tried Bradford but couldn’t get through. Finally he’d gotten hold of White River. The White River wrecker was out on call but would be up as soon as it got back.
    â€œHark. I do believe I hear the sound of a si-reen,” Harlan said.
    Jim heard the siren, too, from across the river. It was coming their way.
    A white Ford sedan with blue flashers and “Town of Woodsville Constable” stenciled on the driver’s door in red pulled up to the far side of the second-longest covered bridge in the world. A rotund man in a blue uniform and a blue hat with a black chinstrap got out and started across the bridge.
    Jim could feel his heart going faster. Maybe the accident wasn’t his fault, but he’d been driving at the time.
    â€œWhat’s all this about?” the constable said. “Didn’t you fellas see the load limit sign?”
    The officer looked into the barrel. “Have you boys been drinking?”
    â€œCertainly not,” Harlan said. “We’ve all tooken the pledge. Our driver, Jim Kinneson here, is sober as a judge.”
    The policeman surveyed the Knights from under the brim of his hat. “There’s no drinking within one hundred feet of the bridge,” he said. “It’s a national monument, up on the historical register. I’m afraid I’ve got to write you boys up.”
    Traffic was beginning to back up on the Vermont side of the river. The driver of a milk truck with Massachusetts plates laid on his horn, then backed up the hill and turned around in the farmer’s barnyard. An older couple from Mississippi stopped to read the historical marker. They stared at the bus trapped on the bridge. “Look at this,” the man said to his wife. He pointed at a flyer tacked to the bridge beside the entryway:
    Minstrel show, 7 P.M. , July 4, Kingdom Common Town Hall. Music, skits, Amos ’n’ Andy, Walkin’ for de Cake. Admission two dollars, chirren under 12 free.
    The woman from Mississippi shook her head. “Vermont,” she said to her husband.
    Three carloads of PONY League ballplayers on their way from Bradford to a game in North Conway began to chant, “Throw the cop in the river.”
    â€œHere, now,” the policeman said, putting away his citation book. “You boys want the truth, I’m just a part-time constable, weekends and evenings. Mainly, I’m a Hoover repairman.”
    The morning was wearing away. There was no word from the towing service in White River. Jim overheard Harlan tell Charlie that Boston might be out the window.
    The PONY League team took their lunch down beside the river and had a picnic. Afterward they played flies and grounders in the farmer’s cow pasture. Charlie arranged with their coach for the White Knights of Temperance to play them, the Knights to bat left-handed. The part-time constable agreed to umpire from