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Ned approached Lester, who was swinging Winslow, the youngest Ward, up on his shoulder.

“What do you want, Ned?” Burton spat, Lester’s football now lodged carelessly under his left foot.

Ned watched Burton pick up the ball and twirl it around in front of his face. Ned blew out a deep breath, slowly inhaled, and, ignoring Burton, he faced Lester.

“There was a scuffle,” he said in a voice weaker than he’d anticipated. “Maybe you should, you could, if you . . .”

“Sure was a pileup,” said Lester, resting his elbow on Burton’s shoulder and leaning toward Ned with an affable grin. “I couldn’t make out what happened. You didn’t catch it, did you?”

“I, well”— Ned looked from Lester to Burton and back again —“I did.”

“Aw, Burton. What are Mom and Pop going to do without me here to keep you in line?” Lester said. He took the ball from Burton and handed it to Ned. “I’ll bet you’re a fine player, Ned. I was pretty squat at your age, too. And look at me now, off to U.I.”

“Les-ter!” Burton whined, glaring at Ned and trying to edge his way into Lester’s line of vision.

Ned stood his ground. He swelled with pride. This was the same Lester Ward who had rung up his bubble gum at the Ben Franklin. The same Lester who sledded down the Eighth Street hill like Ned did in winter and fished off Willow Creek Bridge like Ned did in summer. But today Lester was larger than all that. Larger than Goodhue. He was an Iowa Hawkeye football player. In a matter of weeks, Lester Ward from Goodhue, Iowa, would be facing down legendary Minnesota Gopher Bronko Nagurski. And not only was Ned acquainted with Lester, but he’d caught his pass. Lester knew his name and had called him a fine football player.

Ned tucked the ball under an arm and stuck out his free hand. “Good luck at Iowa. I’ll be rooting for you.” Lester grabbed Ned’s hand and pumped it heartily. He ruffled Ned’s hair.

“Thanks, pal. Come to Iowa City, why don’t you. Come see a game.”

Then Lester was setting Winslow down. He was hugging his mother, slapping his father’s back, giving Burton a playful sock on the arm. He was tossing his duffel over his shoulder and hopping lithely aboard the train.

“Good-bye! Good-bye, Lester!” Ned shouted. “I will come see a game! I’ll be there!” His arm shot up, and the hand that had shook Lester’s waved furiously.

“Shoot,” said Burton, wiping his sleeve across his reddened face. “How will
you
get to a Hawkeye football game, Ned Button? Lucky Tugs going to take you?”

“I . . .” said Ned. “I . . .” Burton had him there. Buttons didn’t believe in frivolous travel. Iowa City may well have been Zanzibar for all the chance he had of getting there; even Tugs couldn’t fix that.

“I — I — I . . .” Burton mimicked.

“I — I — I . . .” Winslow repeated, and laughed.

“You,”
said Burton, “have
my
football.” He snatched the ball from Ned and darted away with Winslow, leaving Ned empty-handed as the train rolled around the bend and out of sight.

Ned hadn’t been there the day Tugs saved Goodhue from notorious con man Harvey Moore, aka Dapper Jack Door, but he’d heard the story enough times he could see the July crowd that had swarmed around to congratulate her. He could hear Miss Lucy, the librarian, declaring Tugs the town’s rabbit’s foot, or some such, and see the Rowdies (the Rowdies!) and Aggie Millhouse (of the Millhouse Bank and Trust Millhouses!) pat her on the back. The family had talked of nothing since — how their fortunes had changed!

And if the stories were not enough, there was the framed newspaper clipping hanging on the kitchen wall, just over Gladdy’s shoulder, so that every time Ned looked up during a meal, Tugs grinned back at him.

“The
Chicago Tribune
— now,
that
is something,” Mother was saying, as she did at nearly every supper, pointing her fork at the clipping, though, truth be told, Mina was loath to look at the thing, hanging it out of politeness to her sister-in-law Corrine, who had presented one to each Button household at great personal expense. It pained Mina that she’d sent Ned to the uncles’ farm that day, causing him to miss the opportunity to be in the newspaper with Tugs.

Here Granddaddy Ike chimed in, as he did at nearly every meal, “Takes after me, does Tugs. You’ll recall I was featured in the
Goodhue Gazette
back when.”

And, as they did at nearly every meal, the family nodded patiently without reminding Granddaddy that setting the town hall on fire had not done for the Button name what nabbing an infamous felon had.

Usually they fell to companionable chewing at this point, being a clan more inclined toward private thoughts than convivial conversation, with children typically admonished that everyone’s digestion improves when children speak only when spoken to. But tonight Ned couldn’t help himself.

He’d been holding in his mind that moment with Lester, spinning it around in his head like a prized marble, at once bursting to tell the tale and yet afraid that if he did speak the words out loud, the scene would disintegrate. Lester Ward had shaken his hand, looked him in the eye, placed his own football in Ned’s hands.

“I caught Lester Ward’s football, and I’m going to get it back,” he declared, pounding his hand on the table. Granddaddy burped in the silence that followed.

“Ooh, Ned, you’re in trouble!” said Gladdy.

“Never mind,” said his mother, reaching across the table to pat his hand, then checking his forehead with the back of her hand. “You didn’t have a chance. Burton has height on you. Now, drink your milk.”

“And girth,” added his father.

“And there was that Stump boy, making trouble,” continued his mother, giving Granddaddy a poke in the arm. “Granddaddy, you’re making no progress at all. Look lively, now.”

Ned lifted his glass, then set it down without taking a drink.

“I did catch it. Gladdy saw me, didn’t you, Gladdy? Burton took it from me. And then when the train was leaving, Lester gave the ball back and Burton took it again. I’m going to get him.”

“Don’t pull me into it!” Gladdy said. “No fighting, I said. Didn’t I say that, Ned? I said, ‘We shouldn’t be squabbling.’”

Emboldened by his own outburst, Ned continued recklessly, “And I’m going to a game.”

“A game,” said his father absently.

“Gladdy, sit up straight, now, and eat your peas,” said Mother. “Let’s all get back to the business at hand.”

“Milo Jackson says when Teddy Roosevelt went hunting in Africa after he lost to Taft, he caught himself a
rhino
. Can you feature that?” said Granddaddy Ike. “Now, that’s big game.”

“I mean . . .” Ned fiddled with his fork. Had it really happened? Had Lester really asked him to come to a game? “I want to go to a Hawkeye football game in Iowa City. Lester Ward invited me.” There. He’d said it.

Father stabbed a boiled potato out of the bowl and mashed it on his plate. “Costs,” he said. “End of story.”

Mother sawed her beef into thin slivers with the household’s one sharp knife, then passed it on to Granddaddy. “You’re eleven, Ned. You’re not going to Iowa City for any reason. I know what all goes on there game days. Thievery. Rowdiness. Drinking. Gambling. Wild driving. No son of mine is going to a Hawkeye game. I don’t care if Hoover himself is playing.”

“President Hoover does not play football,” Gladdy added helpfully. “He is not athletically inclined. But then, neither is Ned. Maybe Ned will be president of the United States. He is from Iowa, like President Hoover. And they are both not athletic.”

“You can be president, Gladdy. I’m going to a Hawkeye game. Lester will be expecting me.”

“Girls can’t be president,” said Gladdy.

“Too bad,” said Mother. “I’ve got plenty of ideas could shape this country up. Take a mother and put her in the White House and I’ll tell you what.” She pondered the window, then took in Gladdy and Ned with a single decisive look. “Finish your supper, both of you, and get these silly notions out of your head. President. Iowa City. Humph.”

But Ned wasn’t hungry anymore.

After supper Ned walked Granddaddy Ike to his one-room cottage next door and helped him get settled in his chair.

“Read me a chapter, will you?” said Granddaddy, sitting back with his pipe.

“You’ll fall asleep if I start reading.” Ned needed Granddaddy’s ear. Talking to him was like throwing a ball against the school wall. It’s not that Granddaddy said so much, but he listened in a way that sent Ned’s thoughts back to him with new bounce.

“Never too tired for my friends Toto and Scarecrow.”

“Can we read tomorrow?”

“You’re what — ten, eleven?” said Granddaddy. “And you don’t have time to read an old man a story? You’ve got all the time in the world. It’s me who’s got more to get done than I got years.”

“I’m eleven,” Ned muttered. “It’s not that.”

“Book’s on the shelf. Go on, now.”

Ned went to Granddaddy’s winnings shelf and slid
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
out from between a pocketknife and a recording of “The Memphis Blues,” in a worn sleeve.
Oz
was Granddaddy’s one book. He’d won it in a checkers match with Mr. Jackson. The pocketknife was Ned’s favorite item on the shelf. A fellow could sure make use of a pocketknife.

“I’m having a birthday over here,” said Granddaddy.

Ned sat on the footstool and opened to the page held by the slim green marking ribbon. Last time they read, the Cowardly Lion had been saved from the poisonous flowers by a thousand mice, and though Ned and Granddaddy had read this book over and over, and though he would rather be sorting out his Burton and Iowa City problem, Ned was anxious despite himself to get Dorothy safely back to Kansas.

“Chapter X,”
he read.
“Guardian of the Gate.”

Ned read fast, stumbling over some of the words that were covered by green drawings, getting the troop up to the farmhouse and safely inside for porridge.

But when the farmer asked Dorothy, “Where’s Kansas?” Ned hesitated. Imagine not being able to get home again. Imagine someone saying, “Where’s Goodhue?” It made his supper turn over in his stomach. Did people in Iowa City know where Goodhue was the way people in Goodhue knew where Iowa City was?

Ned had been as far as Swisher. He’d even been to the uncles’ farm on the edge of Iowa City, the university buildings visible in the distance. But there’d never been occasion to actually venture into town. Ned knew the streets of Goodhue like he knew every inch of his and Gladdy’s room. He’d never been lost.

University. The universe in a city. What would that look like?

“Granddaddy?” Ned asked.

“Um-hmm.”

“What’s the farthest you’ve ever been away from Goodhue? Have you been into Iowa City? Have you seen the university? If so, how did you get there? Have you been out of the county? During the war you must have been, right? Have you been out of Iowa? Have you ever been lost?”

“Whoa, now,” said Granddaddy. “That’s a pile of questions.” He lifted the book out of Ned’s hand and carefully replaced the ribbon before closing it.

He took his pipe, which until now had just been dangling in his mouth like a toothpick, filled the bowl, tamped it, and lit it with a match from the side-table drawer. He breathed in as he held the match to the bowl. Ned relaxed into the dark, sweet smell.

“I might have underestimated you,” said Granddaddy. “Figured you were like the rest of this lot, tree roots growing out of the soles of their shoes, tethering them to this one spot of soil, now to kingdom come. Rather hear about a thing than do a thing. Hmmm . . .”

They sat for a bit, pondering this.

“The war is a story for another time, but I can tell you that getting lost isn’t the worst thing to happen to a fellow,” said Granddaddy. “Long as you got your wits about you.”

Granddaddy put the book back on the shelf. He straightened his treasures. “I have been in Iowa City. Way back. I have been at the university itself. Suppose I could have studied there myself had circumstances not intervened. I have walked across the river on the new bridge. I have seen those college boys roughhouse on a Saturday night. But I have not been inside the stadium.”

“They’re building a new one,” said Ned. “And Lester Ward’s on the first team to play in it. They dug a hole thirty feet in the ground. Where do you suppose they put all that dirt?”