"I’ve never seen him. There’s an office over there under the grandstand. A light burns in it all night. It’s a bright, blue light, kind of funny. There’s a desk there with no papers in it and an empty chair. The sign says Manager, bu
t nobody ever sees the man."
"He must be around."
"That’s right," said the boy. "Or I wouldn’t be where I am, and someone else wouldn’t be where they are."
"You certainly talk grownup."
The boy was pleased. "Do you want to know who I really am? I’m not Tommy Marshall at all. I’m Tom Marshall, the father." He sat there in the dust, not moving, late at night, under the high and faraway light, with the late wind blowing his shirt collar gently under his chin, blowing the cool dust. "I’m Tom Marshall, the father. I know it’ll be hard for you to believe. But it is true. I was afraid for Tommy. I was the way you are now about Jim. So I made this deal with the Playground. Oh, there are others who did the same, here. If you look close, you’ll see them among the other children, by the expression in their eyes."
Underhill blinked. "You’d better run home to bed."
"You want to believe me. You want it to be true. I saw your eyes just then! If you could trade places with Jim, you would. You’d like to save him all that torture, let him be in your place, grownup, the real work over and done."
"Any decent parent sympathizes with his children."
"You, more than most. You feel every bite and kick. Well, you come here tomorrow. You can make a deal, too."
"Trade places?" It was an incredible, an amusing, but an oddly satisfying thought. "What would I have to do?"
"Just make up your mind."
Underhill tried to make his next question sound very casual, a joke, but his mind was in a rage again. "What would I pay?"
"Nothing. You’d just have to play in the Playground."
"All day?"
"And go to school, of course."
"And grow up again?"
"Yes, and grow up again. Be here at four tomorrow afternoon."
"I have to work in the city tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," said the boy.
"You’d better get home to bed, Tommy."
"My name is Tom Marshall." The boy sat there.
The Playground lights went out.
Mr. Underhill and his sister did not speak at breakfast. He usually phoned her at noon to chat about this or that, but he did not phone. But at one-thirty, after a bad lunch, he dialed the house number. When Carol answered he hung up. Five minutes later he phoned again.
"Charlie, was that you called five minutes ago?"
"Yes," he said.
"I thought I heard you breathing before you hung up. What’d you call about, dear?" She was being sensible again.
"Oh, just called."
"It’s been a bad two days, hasn’t it? You do see what I mean, don’t you, Charlie? Jim must go to the Playground and get a few knocks."
"A few knocks, yes."