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By Root 1200 0

were a number of worthwhile things one could get in exchange for cereal boxtops, and in his room in the bottom drawer of his desk where valuable possessions were kept, along with a Roman candle left over from the previous Fourth of July, a bottle of nails, a deflated rubber basketball, a bronze coin bank in the shape of a book with a leatherette cover, and other choice items—there in the bottom drawer he maintained a cache of boxtops. From time to time, when he had accumulated enough, he would mail some of these boxtops to the company and in about ten days would receive the premium. He had gotten a balsawood glider kit which he had assembled, but the glider lodged high up in an oak tree on its maiden flight and was still to be seen months later. He had gotten a mustard-colored ocarina, known as a “sweet potato,” on which he played unrecognizable melodies. He had gotten a Tom Mix cap pistol with a glaring red holster, but had mislaid the gun so that now he had only the holster. He had gotten a pair of aluminum spurs which dragged the ground whenever he attached them to his tennis shoes, and a horsehair lasso, and a fishing reel—the line was now irrevocably snarled—and a bicycle pump that leaked, and a reproduction of Custer’s Last Stand. He had in mind several other premiums. He desperately wanted a blowgun with six darts, a battery-powered model of Sir Malcolm Campbell’s Bluebird, a periscope, an incense burner, and most of all a fur-lined aviator’s helmet with tinted goggles.

Nobody else in the family saved boxtops; even so, it took a long time to get a premium. He had been considering this, together with the fact that in almost every house in the neighborhood somebody ate cereal, which meant, presumably, that hundreds of boxtops were going to waste. If he could get hold of these boxtops he could order most of the premiums in the catalog. The question was how to get them. At first he thought of going from house to house asking for them, but the idea of ringing doorbells and explaining what he wanted was embarrassing. Finally he decided to follow the trash collectors who came around every two weeks.

He did not mention this to his friends Tipton and Vandermeer, because they might cut in on the route; nor was there any point in mentioning it at home, either to his parents or to his sisters or to Harriet. If his mother or his father found out what he was doing there might be trouble. He did not think there was anything wrong with the plan, but just the same he did not mention it.

Every other Saturday morning as soon as he had finished breakfast, without telling anybody where he was going he went out the kitchen door, jumped the hedge, and trotted away. He cut through the vacant lot, climbed the fence behind the Edison house, trotted down their driveway, crossed Stratford Road, and at the corner of Fifty-ninth Street he squatted beside one of his favorite telephone poles to wait for the truck.

He came home in time for lunch, with his pockets bulging.

At first he felt uncomfortable as he followed the truck through the neighborhood, but after several trips he began to feel that the trash collectors accepted him, and after a while he learned their names—Vince, Steve, and Dom. Dom was the friendliest, occasionally speaking to him and calling him “kid.” Dom was also the thirstiest; he often stopped at the water faucet outside somebody’s house and drank from his cupped hands. Then he usually blew his nose while holding his thumb against it and wiped his thumb on his pants before going back to work. Douglas was impressed by the way the trash man blew his nose and tried it himself a number of times when nobody was watching, but finally gave up and continued using a handkerchief.

One April morning when the truck stopped in front of his own house he thought it must be about time for Dom to have another drink, so he inquired. He explained that this was where he lived and he volunteered to get a glass of ice water from the kitchen. The trash man said he could drink from the outside faucet. Douglas said it was no trouble to get a glass