When Carstairs stole second, it wasn't long before agents from the
R.B.I., in their pin-striped suits, came and apprehended him, somewhere
between second and third. They did it so skillfully, so swiftly and so
covertly, that Buck Remson, the manager of the Bismarck Polliwogs, was
mystified when, on the base hit from Gibbs, nobody crossed the plate. He
came out of the dugout, spreading his hands and looking around as if he'd
personally lost Carstairs from his own pockets. Fans whispered to each
other in a hubbub. The umps had a conference at third base. Sprightly
organ music played while the umps went over every foot of the 90 between
second and third. They found a tangle of footprints, one, oddly, from a
shoe without spikes, but in the end, they were able to shed no light on
the affair. Slightly embarrassed and thin-lipped, at last they ruled it a
baserunning error, and stoically they weathered the storm of guff from