The noon whistle was blowing at the volunteer firehouse across the street when Johnson finished on the phone. Aside from Craig and Amos, two others were present. Russell Homer was a slight fellow, with a narrow, bony face but a quick and willing smile. His life had been uphill on Yarkie, his ineffectual mother dead when he was an infant, his father the scorned town drunk. He had been brought up by an aunt who was strict even by island standards. He wore an Ahab-­type beard to look older, respectable. He knew his was the dirtiest job in town, except for the fish-­cleaning shed. Russell didn’t mind. Riding the yellow bulldozer at the dump, he dreamed his dream, oblivious of the stink, the screaming gulls, the scurrying rats, the streaming roaches. He was saving for the day he would put a payment down for a machine of his own and hire it out on Yarkie. He would be his own boss, his young wife and son would be invited to any home on the island, even Hildie Cannon’s on High Ridge, the cream of the cream.

Right now Russell Homer sat hunched over, feeling guilty for the mess at the dump. Maybe he didn’t spread the new chemicals correctly. He kept repeating a private prayer that the Harvard people could fix things fast. It was lucky they had Elias Johnson who could put them in touch with that kind of help and authority.

Stephen Scott, seated next to Homer, was a fat man who always seemed to be puffing for breath even when he was still. He was the Yankee entrepreneur of Yarkie, a selectman like Johnson, and persuasive enough even to get the votes for his marina project. He could be greedy, but people also knew he often helped poor families anonymously. It was a typical Yankee contradiction.

Ben Dorset entered the office just as Elias Johnson began his report. Dorset, a lanky, blond man of thirty, was the first deputy sheriff and assistant fire chief under Craig Soaras. He had come from the firehouse where, following Johnson’s instructions, the pumper truck was now leaving to crisscross Yarkie with a warning that High Ridge Woods were out of bounds, being sprayed.

Elias Johnson spoke crisply, “Richard says he can’t tell us anything till he knows more, but he agrees the new poisons may be the trouble. He thinks that the rats may try to get out of the dump, so, Amos, we’d better put some men with guns at the spit out there, where it narrows, and have them shoot any buggers they see. At night we’ll set up flares.”

“Right!” the sheriff agreed promptly.