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Show Throwing the Bread Butch and Fenn Stories 87 "Fenn, you know that dime you owe me?" I start. "Well, I'd be willing to clear the books for, say, one can of mandarin oranges. Your mother's never going to miss one can." "Do I owe him a dime?" Fenn asks Butch. Butch opens the book. "Yes." "One can." Fenn nods, lost in the wonderful logic of being able to keep all of his spending money for our trips to the pharmacy soda fountain. So, Fenn clambors home and Butch moans at me as he crosses out the debt. I tell Butch: "Don't complain. I'm doing him a favor. Besides, he'll bring you some crackers." And soon Fenn is back, stepping up the bleachers. He tosses me the can of those sweet baby oranges, and Butch and Fenn grumble over their crackers. I open the little can from the bottom using my old Forest Master pocket knife, because the little purple 59^ printed on the top bothers me. A little. In the late afternoon, the minor league wrestles out a game or two, and we stay and watch Fenn's little brother pitch. For an eight year old he has a fair curve. About the second inning the concession stand is in full swing, along with my chances for swindling Fenn. I eat half a snowcone, being sure to drain all of the succulent orange syrup, and then offer it to him at the full retail price: ten cents.. .credit. Fenn is too lazy, if he's sitting on the top bleacher, and too |