“She nivir did me ‘arm,” Skif observed slowly. “Nawt thet she ’ad more’n a scatterin’ uv wits t’ begin wi’. Ol’ Beel—’e dun me a good turn, reckon ‘e’s dun wut ’e cud fer Maisie.”

“Like I sed,” Bazie put in, when comment seemed called for, “Niver know wut a mon’ll do, when ‘e gets in Temple. I reckon ol’ Londer ain’ gonna be too pleased wi’ yon Beel from ’ere on.”

Skif smiled slowly. “Reckon yer right, Bazie.”

The next several days passed much as the first had. Skif had originally been more than a little cautious around Bazie, especially when he found himself alone with the man. Crippled or not, Skif was in Bazie’s control, and there was always the possibility that Bazie’s interests in his boys went beyond the obvious. But Bazie never once showed anything but an honest friendliness that was both nurturing and practical. If Skif had ever known a real father, he would have recognized the odd feelings he was having now as being those of a son for a caring father—and he would have seen that Bazie’s actions were like those of a caring father for his sons. He only knew that he liked Bazie enormously, and he trusted the man more and more with every moment. For his part, Bazie pretty much took care of his own needs, requiring only to be carried to and from the water closet. Skif was impressed by how calmly self-sufficient he was. He had guessed by now that Bazie was at least forty or fifty years old, and yet he never seemed old.

There was one thing, however, that Bazie always insisted on which seemed rather odd to Skif. One of his daily chores was to set a handful of wheat to soaking, and rinse the sprouting grains from previous days. When the sprouts got to a certain length, Bazie would eat them. He didn’t seem to like them very much, but he doggedly munched them down.

“‘F ye don’ like tha’ muck, why’d ye eat it ev’ day?” Skif finally asked.

“‘Cuz I like m’ teeth,” Bazie said shortly. “’F I don’ eat tha’ muck, seein’ as I niver sees th’ sun, ‘twon’t be long ’fore I lose m’teeth an’ gets sick. Tha’s wut Healer tol’ me fust time m’ teeth started bleedin’ an’ I got sick. Mucky grass ’s cheapest stuff ‘round, so’s tha’s wut I eat in winter. Summer, ’course, they’s good stuff i’ market.”

As the days passed, Skif finally grew bold enough to voice some of his curiosity about this most curious of situations. Besides, getting Bazie to talk made a welcome break from being drilled in sums as he scrubbed or stirred the laundry kettle.

At first, his questions were about commonplaces, but eventually he got up the courage to start asking more personal things. And, finally, he asked the most important of all.

“Bazie—wut ’appened t’ yer legs?” he ventured, and waited, apprehensively, for a hurt or angry reply.