Read Online Dog Days by David Lubar - Free Book Online

CHAPTER 1
A SPOT OF TROUBLE
    Larry Haskins blocked the morning sun with his right hand and tried to spot the fly ball that was dropping from the sky. He caught sight of it high up, almost blending with a small patch of summer clouds.
    “Got it!” Larry shouted. He brought his glove into position and dashed forward. There weren’t many things as wonderful as the smack of a hardball landing dead center in the web of a welloiled glove. It was especially wonderful because Adam Felcher had hit the ball. Last inning, Adam had caught Larry’s line drive just before it would have sailed over the fence.
    This was payback time—bottom of the ninth, two outs, the tying run on second.
    Larry glanced away from the ball long enough to check the infield. The kid on second had reached third. Adam had rounded first and was tearing toward second. It didn’t matter how far he got. He’d be out as soon as Larry made the play.
    Plunging like a diving hawk, the ball was headed right for Larry’s glove. Around the infield, his teammates yelled for him to make the catch. He tuned out the voices. Nothing existed in the world but the ball and his glove.
    “Lar-r-r-ry!” A frightened shout ripped the air behind him. Startled, Larry glanced over his shoulder. His six-year-old brother, Paul, ran onto the field from a hole in the fence. “Larry, come with me! You have to come!” he yelled.
    With a sudden rush of panic, Larry realized he’d taken his eyes off the ball. He flung his arm up. The ball hit the top of his glove and grazed off. It struck the ground, bounced against a rock, and skittered across the grass like a frightened rabbit.
    Larry chased the ball. From the cheers that rose behind him, he knew that the tying run had already scored. He snatched the ball with his bare hand and spun, making the throw to Mark Tilly at second base just as Adam reached third. The throw was perfect. Mark caught it, turned toward the plate, and hurled a bullet to the catcher. Adam slid into home—just ahead of the throw.
    “Safe!” the kid behind the plate called.
    The whole time, Paul kept shouting, “Larry! Larry! Larry . . .”
    Larry glared at his brother. “What are you doing in town?”
    “Mom sent me to the store for a spool of thread,” Paul said.
    “Then go to the store,” Larry said. “They don’t sell thread here. They sell it
there
.” He pointed past the field, down Washington Avenue, toward the row of little shops. “And stay on this side of the street.”
    “But, Larry, I think someone needs help.” Paul grabbed Larry’s wrist and started pulling. “Someone’s in trouble. You’ve got to come.”
    “No,” Larry said. “We’re about to start another game.” He was looking forward to getting back up to the plate. This time
nobody
would catch what he hit.
    “It’s important!” Paul stared up at Larry with eyes that seemed to say,
You’re my big brother and you can fix anything
. Then he yanked at Larry’s hand like he was trying to pluck an apple from a tree. “C’mon, pleeease!”
    “All right, quit tugging.” Larry couldn’t refuse that pleading lost-puppy expression. And he realized there’d be no peace until he found out what Paul wanted. “I’ll be right back,” he called to his friends.
    Carlos Montoya, who’d just arrived at the field, rushed in to fill Larry’s spot. “Take your time, Larry. I’ve got it covered.”
    “This way,” Paul said, climbing back through the hole in the outfield fence and trotting down Larch Street toward Washington Avenue.
    Larry followed his brother, wondering what silly misunderstanding it would be this time. Last week, when they’d gone to the park with their parents, Paul yelled that he saw an alligator in the pond. The gator turned out to be a log. Sure, there was green moss on the log and rough bark that looked a little like a reptile’s skin, but it was still nothing more than a wet log, which wasn’t surprising since there wasn’t a wild alligator