Looking down, Lucy realized that her jeans were covered with mud and the pocket of her jacket was torn. She must be a sight, she thought, color rising to her cheeks. She laughed.

“Well, I can laugh about it now, but I was pretty scared. The car got stuck in mud, a vicious dog had me treed, and then Harold Higham shot the dog and took a few shots at me.”

The two ladies clicked their tongues sympathetically.

“That’s why I stopped by,” Lucy continued. “I was wondering about Harold Higham. Is he related to George Higham?”

“He’s his brother,” said Miss Tilley.

“How can that be?” Lucy demanded. “They’re so different.”

“George is a remarkable man,” said Mrs. Miller. “He’s really his own creation. He pulled himself up by the bootstraps and walked right out of Bump’s River Road.”

“When he was a little boy he’d come to the library after school every afternoon. He’d settle himself in a little corner of the children’s room and read there until closing time. Then he’d go walking off down the road, a tiny little fellow. I don’t think they lived so far out of town then.”

“No,” agreed Mrs. Miller. “They lived in a ramshackle old house next to the Mobil station. It’s gone now. It fell down. It was an awful place, a terrible firetrap. I used to worry about them, especially in winter. Lord knows what they used for heat.”

“Probably a woodstove, set right on the floor, with a nice pile of newspapers and kindling kept handy right next to it.”

“I’m sure you’re right. It’s a wonder it didn’t burn down.” Mrs. Miller shook her head.

“The father was a piece of work, I can tell you that.”

“He was a dreadful man,” Mrs. Miller agreed. “He used to lie on the porch steps, drunk as a skunk, throwing things at people who walked by. He called them terrible names, too.”

“The mother died when George was about ten or so, I think,” Miss Tilley remembered. “Poor woman was probably glad to go.”

“She led a terrible life, between the husband and the idiot son.”

“She might not have realized how terrible it was,” observed Miss Tilley. “She wasn’t very bright, as I recall.”

“Wasn’t there something you could do?” Lucy asked. “Today it would be called child neglect, maybe even worse.”

“People did try, but all they ever got for their efforts was a torrent of abuse from the father. Or worse. Just like you did today.”

“How did George manage to do so well?”

“His teachers encouraged him, and I’d let him stay at the library. Other people took an interest in him. He was always different from the rest of the Highams.”