Snope nodded. He had said nothing yet about his cut; and Willy understood that this was taken for granted. Snope got up from his chair and went to a steel file cabinet and extracted a folder. He studied the folder for a while; it contained some items about car accident statistics and the legal settlement of the same, but Mr. Snope seemed to be reading between the lines. After a while he said, “All right. Here’s the address.”

Willy copied down what Snope told him.

Snope laid the folder on his desk. “How many more?”

“I’ll let Big Tom handle it.”

Snope nodded. “Fine.” He was smiling youthfully, his manner full of boyish good will. “Leave a phone number with Miss Weems. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” On the way to the door he clapped Willy cheerfully on the shoulders.

There was wind in the canyon, the smell of sage and sycamores, the old dry taste of summer dust, heat, a muffled quiet. Uncle Willy paused on the rutted road to wipe the sweat off his face with his handkerchief. He hated not having a car. Being afoot in southern California meant depending on a public transportation system which would have been insufficient for 1890.

Above him a pink-trimmed cabin peeped from a grove of trees. Uncle Willy looked up at it, narrowing his eyes against the glare. Steps led up from the unpaved road. There were patches of ivy and geraniums on the slope, and, seeing these, a look of recognition flickered in Willy’s eyes. Big Tom had always been great for gardening. Gardens and cats. Sure enough, there was a big yellow cat on the porch above, looking down at Willy with the air of watching a mouse.

Willy climbed the steps, went up on the porch, rapped at the door. It wasn’t a big place, but there was a great deal of privacy. From the porch there were no other houses visible, just the road leading off into the lonely sunlight. Willy heard a stir in the room, steps, then the door opened before him. “Hi, you old son of a gun,” Willy said, and the man inside let forth a great cackle of laughter.

“Well, for God’s sake, look who’s here!”

Big Tom wore a pair of jeans and a knitted white tee shirt. His big toes were hooked into rubber sandals. He had a great mane of gray hair, stiff as wire, pale skin matted with freckles, a broad face, a heavy mouth. He was fat now; Willy commented at once upon how much fatter Big Tom was than when he had last seen him.

“Hell, you were salted away a long time, Willy!” They were seated by now. Big Tom gazed suddenly at Willy with his hazel-colored eyes. “Who gave you the address here?”

“Snope.”