from the future," said Lisa. "Rube Marquard is from a year
that hasn't happened yet."

"But how is that possible?" asked Hootsey.

"Have you ever noticed," explained the shadow, "how you can stand in the
middle of two or more different sources of light, and cast several
shadows in various directions?"

"Of course," said Hootsey. "And sometimes I have a long skinny shadow
that is faint and grayish, while I also have a short fat shadow right
under me which is almost completely black. And when I'm flying, I can
make lots of different shadows that don't even touch me anywhere."

"Yes," said Rube. "And these are all your shadow. If you go on a stage
with many footlights, you will cast various images of various shades of
gray. These are all your shadow. You see, your shadow can go in any
direction, backward or forward. It can reach to a distant area or stay
situated close by. And it can do all at one time without ever letting go
of you--even if, as you say, it isn't actually touching you. You are
always attached at some place. As the shadow of Rube Marquard, I touch
him always, even while he is far away in repose. I can be his past, his
future, or his mirror image. That is why I can remember experiences he
hasn't even had yet. Sometimes we shadows accidentally create a feeling
of deja vu in our live counterparts, which can lead to a false sense of
psychic ability."

"I don't know much about American sports figures," said Elephant. "But
it sounds like you are someone who is or will be important to Baseball.
But how did you convince your dad to let you play?"

"Yes," agreed Hootsey. "You still haven't told us."

"Of course," replied the shadow. "As I was saying, I had a friend by the
name of Howard Wakefield. He was playing for the Waterloo Club in the
Iowa State League. That summer--when I was only sixteen--I got a letter
from him.

"'_We can use a good left-handed pitcher_,' the letter said. '_And if
you want to come to Waterloo, I'll recommend you to the manager._' I
think Howard thought that I was at least eighteen or nineteen, as I was
so big for my age.

"I wrote Howard and told him that my dad did not want me to play ball,
so I didn't think he'd give me the money to go. If I asked him, he'd
probably hit the ceiling and rap me over the head with something. Aside
from that, I was ready to go."

"Well," said Lisa indignantly, "a good father would have encouraged you
to go. He should have been able to see that y