The Natural Read Online Free PDF

contempt.
    â€œWhat d’ye say, Max?” he said.

    Mercy shrugged.
    â€œOh, I love contests of skill,” Harriet said excitedly. Roy’s face went pale.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, hayfoot, you scared?” the Whammer taunted.
    â€œNot of you,” Roy said.
    â€œLet’s go across the tracks where nobody’ll get hurt,” Mercy suggested.
    â€œNobody but the busher and his bazooka. What’s in it, busher?”
    â€œNone of your business.” Roy picked up the bassoon case.
    The crowd moved in a body across the tracks, the kids circling around to get a good view, and the engineer and fireman watching from their cab window.
    Sam cornered one of the kids who lived nearby and sent him home for a fielder’s glove and his friend’s catcher’s mitt. While they were waiting, for protection he buttoned underneath his coat the washboard Roy had won. Max drew a batter’s box alongside a piece of slate. He said he would call the throws and they would count as one of the three pitches only if they were over or if the Whammer swung and missed.
    When the boy returned with the gloves, the sun was going down, and though the sky was aflame with light all the way to the snowy mountain peak, it was chilly on the ground.
    Breaking the seal, Sam squeezed the baseball box and the pill shot up like a greased egg. He tossed it to Mercy, who inspected the hide and stitches, then rubbed the shine off and flipped it to Roy.
    â€œBetter throw a couple of warm-ups.”
    â€œMy arm is loose,” said Roy.
    â€œIt’s your funeral.”
    Placing his bassoon case out of the way in the grass, Roy shed his coat. One of the boys came forth to hold it.
    â€œBe careful you don’t spill the pockets,” Roy told him.

    Sam came forward with the catcher’s glove on. It was too small for his big hand but he said it would do all right.
    â€œSam, I wish you hadn’t bet that money on me,” Roy said.
    â€œI won’t take it if we win, kiddo, but just let it stand if we lose,” Sam said, embarrassed.
    â€œWe came by it too hard.”
    â€œJust let it stand so.”
    He cautioned Roy to keep his pitches inside, for the Whammer was known to gobble them on the outside corner.
    Sam returned to the plate and crouched behind the batter, his knees spread wide because of the washboard. Roy drew on his glove and palmed the ball behind it. Mercy, rubbing his hands to warm them, edged back about six feet behind Sam.
    The onlookers retreated to the other side of the tracks, except Harriet, who stood without fear of fouls up close. Her eyes shone at the sight of the two men facing one another.
    Mercy called, “Batter up.”
    The Whammer crowded the left side of the plate, gripping the heavy bat low on the neck, his hands jammed together and legs plunked evenly apart. He hadn’t bothered to take off his coat. His eye on Roy said it spied a left-handed monkey.
    â€œThrow it, Rube, it won’t get no lighter.”
    Though he stood about sixty feet away, he loomed up gigantic to Roy, with the wood held like a caveman’s ax on his shoulder. His rocklike frame was motionless, his face impassive, unsmiling, dark.
    Roy’s heart skipped a beat. He turned to gaze at the mountain.
    Sam whacked the leather with his fist. “Come on, kiddo, wham it down his whammy.”
    The Whammer out of the corner of his mouth told the drunk to keep his mouth shut.
    â€œBurn it across his button.”
    â€œClose your trap,” Mercy said.

    â€œCut his throat with it.”
    â€œIf he tries to dust me, so help me I will smash his skull,” the Whammer threatened.
    Roy stretched loosely, rocked back on his left leg, twirling the right a little like a dancer, then strode forward and threw with such force his knuckles all but scraped the ground on the follow-through.
    At thirty-three the Whammer still enjoyed exceptional eyesight. He saw the ball spin off