baseball with a ragged tennis ball and the handle from a broom. It was a
helter-skelter game that made no pattern but provided a lot of fun and
screaming. He was quite bothered by a quarrel that came up; two of his
own age went at one another with tiny fists flying, using words that
Jimmy hadn't learned from his father's machine.

He wondered how he might join them in their game. But they paid him no
attention, so he didn't try.

At lunchtime Jimmy consumed another collection of hot dogs. He continued
to meander aimlessly through the city until schooltime ended, then he saw
the streets and vacant lots fill with older children playing games with
more pattern to them. It was a new world he watched, a world that had not
been a part of his education. The information he owned was that of the
school curriculum; it held nothing of the daily business of growing up.
He knew the general rules of big-league baseball, but the kid-business of
stickball did not register.

He was at a complete loss. It was sheer chance and his own tremendous
curiosity that led him to the edge of a small group that were busily
engaged in the odd process of trying to jack up the front of a car.

It wasn't a very good jack; it should have had the weight of a full adult
against the handle. The kids strained and put their weight on the jack,
but the handle wouldn't budge though their feet were off the ground.

Here was the place where academic information would be useful--and the
chance for an "in." Jimmy shoved himself into the small group and said,
"Get a longer handle."