It was as if they were meeting for the first time.

‘Douglas Spaulding.’ This time it was not a question, but a confirmation. ‘Douglas Hinkston Spaulding.’

‘Sir.’ And this was not a question from the boy, either. ‘Mr Calvin C. Quartermain.’ And again, ‘Sir.’

‘What’re you doing down there, so far out on the lawn?’

Douglas was surprised. ‘Dunno.’

‘Why don’t you come up here?’ said Quartermain.

‘I’ve got to get home,’ said Douglas.

‘No hurry. Why don’t we sort out the sic transits, letting loose the dogs of war, havocs cried, all that.’

Douglas almost laughed, but found he could not take the first step.

‘Look,’ said Quartermain. ‘If I take out my teeth I won’t bite.’ He pantomimed as if removing something from his mouth but stopped, for Douglas was on the first step, and then the second, and finally at the top, where the old man nodded at another rocker.

Whereupon a remarkable thing took place.

Even as Douglas sat it seemed that the porch planks sank the merest half inch under his weight.

Simultaneously, Mr Quartermain felt his wicker seat move up half an inch!

Then, still further, as Quartermain settled back in his rocker, the porch sank under him.

And at that precise moment, the chair under Douglas rose silently, a quarter inch.

So that each, only sensing, only half knowing, felt that he occupied one end of an invisible teeter–totter which, as they spoke quietly, moved up, moved down, first Douglas sinking as Quartermain rose, then Quartermain descending as Douglas imperceptibly lifted – now one up, now down; now the other up, now down; slowly, slowly.

Now Quartermain high in the soft air of the dying summer, a moment later, Douglas the same.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes, son?’

He’s never called me that before, thought Douglas, and looked at the old man’s face softened with some half–perceived sympathy.

Quartermain leaned forward.

‘Before you ask me whatever you’ve got on your mind, let me ask you something.’

‘Sir?’

The old man’s voice was quiet.

‘How old are you?’

Doug felt the breath sift over his lips.

‘Ummm, eighty–one?’

‘What?!’

‘I dunno. I mean. I dunno.’

At last Douglas added, ‘And you, sir?’

‘Well, now,’ said Quartermain.

‘Sir?’

‘Well, let me see. Twelve?’

‘Sir?!’

‘Or maybe thirteen would be better?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Teeter up, teeter down.

‘Douglas,’ said Quartermain at last, ‘I’d like you to tell me. What’s life all about?’

‘My gosh,’ cried Douglas, ‘I was going to ask you that very question!’

Quartermain pulled back.

‘Let’s rock awhile.’

There was no motion up, no motion down. They held still.

‘It’s been a long summer,’ the old man said.

‘Seemed like it would never end,’ Doug agreed.

‘I don’t think it has. Not yet,’ said Quartermain.