Matlin goggled. “What? What’s this?”

“Could I possibly persuade you, sir, to spend the night away from this neighborhood . . . and depart noisily?”

“No,” said Matlin, raring up, his ego bristling, “no, you cannot! I will under no circumstances be driven away from my own home.” His voice rose. “Furthermore, I certainly will not leave my wife and step-daughter.”

“We could manage, dear,” said Mrs. Matlin anxiously.

Russell told them about the talk under the oak, the B.B. gun.

“Devils,” said May Matlin, “absolutely . . .”

“Oh, Earl,” trembled Mrs. Matlin, “maybe we had all better go away.”

Matlin, red-necked, furious, said, “We own this property. We pay our taxes. We have our rights. Let them! Let them try something like that! Then, I think the law would have something to say. This is outrageous! I did not harm that animal. Therefore, I defy . . .” He looked solemn and silly, as the Judge had said, with his face crimson, his weak eyes rolling.

Russell rose. “I thought I ought to make the suggestion,” he said mildly, “because it would be the safest thing to do. But don’t worry, Mrs. Matlin, because I . . .”

“A B.B. gun can blind . . .” she said tensely.

“Or even worse,” Mike agreed. “But I am thinking of the . . .”

“Just a minute,” Matlin roared. “You can’t come in here and terrify my wife! She is not strong. You have no right.” He drew himself up with his feet at a right angle, his pudgy arm extended, his plump jowls quivering. “Get out,” he cried. He looked ridiculous.

Whether the young man and the bewildered woman in the chair might have understood each other was not to be known. Russell, of course, got out. May Matlin hobbled to the door and as Russell went through it, she said, “Well, you warned us, anyhow.” And her lips came together, sharply.

Russell plodded across the pavement again. Long enchanting shadows from the lowering sun struck aslant through the golden air and all the old houses were gilded and softened in their green setting. He moved toward the big oak. He hunkered down. The sun struck its golden shafts deep under the boughs. “How’s it going?” he asked.

Freddy Titus looked frozen and still. “Okay,” said Phil Bourchard with elaborate ease. Light on his owlish glasses hid the eyes.

Mike opened his lips, hesitated. Supper time struck on the neighborhood clock. Calls, like chimes, were sounding.

“. . . ‘s my Mom,” said Ernie Allen. “See you after.”

“See you after, Freddy.”

“Okay”

“Okay”

Mrs. Somers’s hoot had chimed with the rest and now Freddy got up, stiffly.

“Okay?” said Mike Russell. The useful syllables that take any meaning at all in American mouths asked, “Are you feeling less bitter, boy? Are you any easier?”

“Okay,” said Freddy. The same syllables shut the man out.