Nestled on the west bank of the majestic and wild Brazos River, the elegant Queens of the Court Lawn and Racquet Club contained early-20th Century Spanish Colonial Revival architecture. The cliquish enterprise possessed white stucco walls. A low pitched clay tile roof provided the facility an earthy, rustic attraction.

Terracotta ornamental ironwork graced its edifice. Its double-hung windows and canvas awnings highlighted the exclusive lodge's outer accentuation. Perhaps the most appealing feature was its semi-circular arcade and six massive columns.

There was also a curved archway, circular steps, and a terracotta tiled patio that led to the expressive mesquite main double doors of the country club.

Cody sat perusing the morning edition of the Astatula Gazette newspaper while his Dad placed their supper on the dining room table. It was mahogany, oblong, and comfortably seated six people. Only two places would be required for their meal of bacon cheeseburgers and parmesan-seasoned French fries with oodles of ketchup, at least for the youngster.

Looking up from the paper, Cody initiated their conversation by saying, "Dad, there's an ad here in the Sports Section where "The Queens" is looking for Ball Fetchers."

With a blank expression on his face, Sheriff Brock Daniels asked Cody, "What's that?"

"You know, boys who sit at the side of the court during a tennis match and retrieve balls for the players," Cody enthusiastically expounded.

"And?" his Dad questioned him out loud.

"I can do that, Dad!" Cody replied persuasively. He knew he had to obtain his Dad's permission before he would be allowed to apply for one of these positions that interested him.

"You can do that?" his Dad wondered in mock bewilderment.

"Yes, Dad. I can do that with no problem," Cody countered back.

"Son, I can hardly get you to do your chores around the house and you want me to allow you to take on a job?" Sheriff Daniels commentated.

"It's only on the weekends for the Summer, Dad!" the little high-flier protested, "Besides, I handle my paper route okay, don't I?"

"You do provide a mighty admirable service with delivering your newspapers, Son. I will admit that," Sheriff Daniels complimented him. He paused a moment before saying, "Except on two rare occasions as I recall."

Cody remembered those incidents well. In fact, he would never forget either one of them. The second one happened last Friday. The first one about a month before that. Sheriff Daniels watched Cody squirm a little in his chair. The lessons had been learned the hard way.

Seizing the opportunity he told him, "You brought those tail feather pluckings on yourself, Little Man."

Cody liked the sound of that name. He was proud to be Sheriff Daniels' Little Man. He was thrilled Judge Stancil had approved his adoption by the Sheriff two years earlier, after a lifetime of hellacious abuse at the hands of his father, Earl Anthony Schroder.

Crashing headfirst into a guardrail at ninety-three miles an hour, Earl Anthony Schroder perished one night in a drunken stupor. To Cody, it was no loss at all. Living with Sheriff Daniels, Cody felt wanted and protected. Most of all, for the first time in his whole life, Cody felt loved.

Sheriff Daniels asked Cody, "How many times have you been told when you arrive at a customer's house to get your laziness off your bike and walk their paper up to their porch, not throw it up there?"

"I know I'm supposed to do that Dad," Cody acknowledged. He took another bite of his burger, chewed the meat into tiny pieces, and swallowed them. Then, he continued with, "It won't happen again."

"I would hope not, Son. Broken screen door glass can get expensive," his Dad told him.

"It can hurt, too!" Cody confided, "A lot!"

"Some times a tad of chastisement applied to a particular portion of your lower anatomy is what it takes to get a message through your mule-thick, stubborn, blond head," his Dad commented, "now, finish your supper. A growing boy like you needs to eat."

"Oh, you mean this ninety-nine cent heart attack," Cody teasingly responded.

"Yes, I do," his Dad retorted.

"What if I promise to do all my chores from now on? Then, would you let me be a Ball Fetcher?" Cody wondered devouring his last French fry whole.

The Sheriff usually supported Cody's whims. This time his Dad seemed hesitant about the prospect.

"Why are you against my being a Ball Fetcher, Dad?" Cody asked.

"I think you're taking on too much responsibility, Son," the Sheriff told him, "but, I'll tell you what I'll do. You get the yard mowed tomorrow like I've already asked you to and I'll give you my final answer when I return from Brooksville."

Cody knew he would have to wait for his Dad's decision.

"For now, Little Man, I want you to clear the dirty dishes off the table and wash them. Then, go play some video games. I have a report to finish writing," his Dad said.