"Oh, I dunno—I just want to. I remember that an old poet named Yeats said something about writing poems—the fascination with what's difficult. Maybe that's it."
"Well," Ward said, "it's a dangerous occupation." He looked at the boy with wonder and pride. "Sure, Bobby, give it a try if you want to."
"Gee, thanks!" the boy said. He jumped out of the chair and started toward the door of the study.
"Bobby," Ward called. "Tell me—can you teleport?"
"Not exactly," Bobby said. The papers on the desk in front of Ward suddenly fluttered into the air. They did a lazy circle of the room, swung into an echelon and performed a slow chandelle, before dropping into Bobby's hand. "I can do that stuff. But I didn't do the tigers."
"I'm sure you didn't."
"It was a good stunt, but I wouldn't do that to you, John."
"I know. Do you know who did?"
"I'm not sure." Bobby didn't look at him now. "Anyway, it'd be snitching."
"I'm not asking you to tell."