Howard was on his back. As Fred walked between the rows of beds, shy in the presence of these gilded young strangers, irritated that he had been so yearningly sentimental all the way from Sachem, Howard saw him and bellowed, ‘Hello, Dad! Swell of you to come. I’m O.K. Couple of ribs K.O.‘d. They don’t hurt much, but gosh almighty, the doc insisted on putting a big, thick adhesive-tape bandage on me, it’s like a double-strength corset, and wow, does it itch, ask me, DOES it, and the bandage so thick you can’t scratch through it, and say, I figure there’s a whole war manoeuvres going on underneath it — there’s six regiments of fleas and a troop of light-mounted lice and . . .’

Fred sat on a chair by the bed and he, the round, the cheery, the jesting salesman, was solemn, feeling that the other crocks were inspecting this phenomenon, a Visiting Father. He interrupted:

‘How’d it happen?’

‘Happen? Nobody could’ve avoided it. Car jumped the road and hit a tree. And I was cold sober, and tending strictly to business . . .’

‘How fast?’

‘Fast? You mean how fast was I going?’

‘I do.’

‘Oh, I dunno — not more ‘n forty . . .’

‘Or maybe sixty?’

‘Well, you know — just a fair cruising speed. There was an S-curve there — absolutely a disgrace — entirely the fault of the county authorities — simply a crime — and when I get out of this, I’m going to sue the county. Oh say, Dad, you know Guy Staybridge, from Sachem, don’t you — old hawkface, there in the next bed?’

Fred bowed. Guy waggled a melancholy fingertip. ‘Oh, yes — the son of Putnam Staybridge?’ Fred murmured.

‘I— I understand so,’ said Guy.

Fred was almost reverent. Like most Americans, he was perfectly democratic, except, perhaps, as regards social standing, wealth, political power, and club membership; but was not Mr. Putnam Staybridge believed to be a descendant of the Mayflower? Was he not the chief aristocrat of Sachem Falls?

Howard was volleying on: ‘Yessir, absolutely county supervisors’ fault, and they ought to be shown up. Just like all governments, except in Russia — oppress the people and kill ’em by tyranny and darn careless sloppiness. Dad, did you realize that in the past year — and the Americans thinking THEY’RE so efficient — the growth in production in heavy industry in the Ural section of Russia has been two hundred and seventeen per cent?’

‘So? What is this “heavy industry”?’

‘Heavy industry? Oh, you know. Darn it, I guess Gene Silga — say, now I think of it, I wonder where they took Gene when they brought us here, Guy? — but anyway, I don’t believe Gene said anything about what heavy industry does cover. It’s machines and so on, isn’t it? What d’you think, Dad?’

Fred Cornplow, in the manner of a Roman candle on Fourth of July evening, suddenly flowered and flamed in parental rage. But he spoke so softly that not even Guy, in the next bed, could overhear.