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Nothing Caleb knew of could best his pocketknife. It was the first thing he had ever owned that he really wanted. Life and quack doctors had granted him plenty he didn't want: measles, mumps, whooping cough, croup, cramp colic, flux, bilious fever. But when he clutched the double-bladed, bone-handled, tempered-steel pocketknife in his little fist, he felt retribution for all his past ills.
His mother looked into the door of the dugout. "Caleb, come out and get some sun now," she said. "It will make you better."
Better? He had never felt as well in his life. He owned