WHEN HER 1929 Dodge touring car went off the road—the road that goes from Cleveland to Toledo—and crashed into the living-room fireplace of a country dentist, Echo O’Brien was instantly killed. This took place in a heavy rainstorm, at 4:45 A.M., on the second Sunday of October. The state police pointed out that the hazardous bend in the road was clearly marked by luminous arrows and large signs that said SLOW—DANGEROUS CURVE. They therefore attributed the accident to weather conditions and a possibly defective windshield wiper. But people who knew her well doubted that the vehicle itself had any defects whatsoever; because Echo O’Brien was a fine mechanic and especially fastidious in the care and upkeep of her 1929 Dodge touring car. Most of them believed that what happened to her was simply a terrible thing for which there was no accounting. The two persons who could not hold entirely to this opinion were Clinton and Berry-berry Williams.

This wreck took place just four months after Clinton’s return from Key Bonita. He had come home during the peak of a heat spell so severe that Cleveland newspapers, that same day, carried reports of four different persons who had dropped dead on the sidewalks.

When Clinton walked into the house late that afternoon, himself weak and feverish, he called up the stairs to Annabel: “Hey! I’m home! Annabel!” Then he sat on the floor, his duffel bag in his lap, and leaned against the doorframe.

Annabel rushed down the stairs in her petticoat, pulling a negligee about her shoulders. The first words she spoke to him were, “Clinton! What are you doing on the floor?”

“It’s hot,” he said.

“Where’s Berry-berry?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you see him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Then she took a good look at the boy and said, “Why, precious baby, you are peaked!” She knelt on the floor and gave him a fever test: by pressing her lips against his forehead, she reckoned his temperature to be high enough for concern. “Straight to bed!” she commanded.

As she helped him out of his clothes, Annabel asked what sort of food he’d been eating.

“I ran out of crackers,” he said.

“Why crackers? Didn’t you have money?”

“Cheese crackers.”

“What’s wrong with you, Clinton?”

“I said I ran out of crackers.”

“Look here, Mister traveler, I will not tolerate insolence. Fever or no fever. Now get into this bed and tell me all about your brother.”

“He fell out of the tree.”

“He what?”

“He was eight years old, that’s all. Ker-plunk!”

Suddenly his teeth were chattering and he complained of the cold. Annabel soon realized he was delirious. She covered him with blankets and telephoned the doctor.