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Something snapped. The spring shot across the room. The cartridge cracked. The pen squirted water. And then it leaked gold ink all over the sofa.
    â€œOh, no,” Mr. Murphy said. He closed his eyes, threw back his head, and grunted something like “Urrgh!”
    â€œWhat a mess, Daddy,” Molly observed, matter-of-factly, as she pushed her doll carriage into the den to see what was on TV. “Wait till Mommy sees it.”
    â€œHurry up, Whitaker!” Mr. Murphy yelled, trying to ignore Molly. “What are you doing, making the dishrag?”
    Whitaker dashed into the den with the dishrag and a napkin. “Frogman to the rescue!” he shouted. He had cleaned up his mess before he saw the broken pen.
    â€œWhat happened?” Whitaker asked, staring at a pool of gold ink. “You wrecked it!”
    â€œI had an accident too. Just as you did,” Mr. Murphy said. “I’m really sorry, son,” he added softly.
    â€œBut, Da-a-ad, it’ll take eight more boxtops to get another one. Eight! ”
    â€œListen, Whitaker,” Mr. Murphy said, ready to give up, “I’ll help you eat the lousy cereal if it’s that important. But after all, it’s just a pen.”
    â€œJust a pen? ”
    â€œJust a pen.”
    Silence. Except for Whitaker mumbling, “Eight, eight, eight . . .”
    After counting to ten, Mr. Murphy motioned with his head and patted the sofa cushion, inviting Whitaker to sit down. “I think we should try to forget this whole thing. So come on, Whit, let’s watch the rest of the game. All right?”
    Whitaker grabbed the broken pen and stormed up to his room without saying a word. He didn’t care anymore who would win the game. Placing the pen, now in six pieces, on his bookshelf, he wondered only if he’d ever get his sign from Frogman.
    â€œWhat’s all the fuss?” Mrs. Murphy called to her husband. “I could hear you all the way in the laundry room.”
    â€œJust a bit of baseball excitement, I guess,” Mr. Murphy answered.
    â€œWell, good, who’s winning?” Mrs. Murphy asked.
    Mr. Murphy sighed. “Definitely not me.”
    As he tried to clean the gold ink stain from the sofa, Mr. Murphy remembered what Whitaker had said about gold—how it lasts forever. He hoped that it really didn’t, at least on sofas. Mr. Murphy also remembered what Barney had said earlier that day about tomorrows, how things are generally forgotten then. Only problem, Mr. Murphy thought, is that tomorrow never really comes.

CHAPTER 16
On and On
    W ELL, MARVELOUSLY ENOUGH, tomorrow did come. And it was Sunday.
    Sunday mornings weren’t as good as Saturday mornings in Whitaker’s opinion. But they were better than Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday mornings. Sunday morning meant a big breakfast with the whole family and something extra, like crullers or pecan kringle or doughnuts. It meant no school. It meant a chance to explore at Horlick’s Field, or to get a game of baseball going if the weather cooperated. It meant a whole day to eat Colonel Cornflakes, which meant a new box of cereal and another box top toward a new Utility Pen. It meant time to wait for Frogman. And it also meant the Sunday funnies, where Frogman always appeared in full color on the front page.
    Like an alarm clock, the newspaper hitting the front porch woke up Whitaker without fail. Then he, in turn, woke up Molly, who woke up Mr. and Mrs. Murphy.
    A sleepy parade, they shuffled down the steps. Molly and Mr. and Mrs. Murphy stayed in the kitchen to start breakfast. Whitaker went out to get the paper so he could read the comics first.
    Whitaker opened the front door, and before he even located the paper, he stood paralyzed, facing the water tower. His eyes grew large. He blinked them once. He blinked them twice. But the enormous message didn’t vanish. It was as real as the water tower itself. The big F