This was the way the Masters tended to treat us this summer. They seemed to be modifying their usual attitude of floating, chronic disapproval. During the winter most of them regarded anything unexpected in a student with suspicion, seeming to feel that anything we said or did was potentially illegal. Now on these clear June days in New Hampshire they appeared to uncoil…
Returning, with interest, his gaping shock, “You? Talk too much? How can you accuse me of accusing you of that!” As I said, this was my sarcastic summer. It was only long after that I recognized sarcasm as the protest of people who are weak.
It was only after dinner, when I was on my way alone to the library, that the full danger I had brushed on the limb shook me again. If Finny hadn’t come up right behind me … if he hadn’t been there … I could have fallen on the bank and broken my back! If I had fallen awkwardly enough I could have been killed. Finny had practically saved my life.
We met every night, because Finny’s life was ruled by inspiration and anarchy, and so he prized a set of rules. His own, not those imposed on him by other people, such as the faculty of the Devon School. The Super Suicide Society of the Summer Session was a club; clubs by definition met regularly; we met every night. Nothing could be more regular than that.
Blitzball was the surprise of the summer. Everybody played it; I believe a form of it is still popular at Devon. But nobody can be playing it as it was played by Phineas. He had subconsciously invented a game which brought his own athletic gifts to the highest pitch.
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