A dozen boys of high-school age stood about, watching. "Say, Tony, I've got a buck says you can't make two out of three." "He did last week." "Yeah? Some hot shot." Tony threw the ball. It rose in a perfect arc and dropped through the basket without touching the ring. "Jesus." "How's that buck looking?" "He can't do it again. Betcha." One of them threw the ball back to Tony, and this time he tossed it without delay. A miss. He tried again. A miss. There was a pleased outburst of jeers. "That's the Lowder style." "A flash in the pan." "Say, Tony, you lost that one like you lost the election." "Say, Tony..." "Say, Tony, do you know why you lost the election? My old man told me." Tony had noted that since November they felt personally superior to him. An election was like a prize fight. The loser lost his balls. "What did your old man tell you, hot rock?" he demanded. "He said you're always shooting your mouth off about blacks, but you send your kids to private school." Tony shrugged.
