“What are you doing?” she asked, turning her eyes down in a futile attempt to see his hands. “Touching your breasts.” “Ha! Some other time...maybe. They are very well protected now, too protected,” she said, laughing. He slipped his forefinger under the cast and into the barely visible slit between her breasts. She gasped and her left foot moved convulsively. Subsequently, her brow furrowed with pain. He took his hand back, then looked anxiously at her pale face. Her features relaxed gradually. Franklin hollered out almost all the answers -- putting them into the form of questions as the format required, and I found myself somewhat impressed by the depth and scope of his knowledge. Lots of "baseball men" I had met were undeniably intelligent, but many were narrow in the focus of their interests -- likely the victims of early overemphasis on sports to the exclusion of other pursuits.Franklin Jones didn't answer all the questions. He didn't even get all the ones he answered right, but. More

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