At these words Jack slowed down in spite of himself, and the girl looked to see if there was anything wrong on the road, but everything was normal.

“It’s near Sun Valley,” said the old man. “You know the place with the famous ski resort?”

The girl pricked up her ears for a moment and listened to the engine, but it was turning over fine.

“Now and then I get an urge to see the house again,” he said. “When I nip over there, to Ketchum, I sit in the restaurant across from the house and have a coffee. Sitting by the window, you get a good view of the house. You can even see people going out the side door to the garden.”

The old man added that the owner of the restaurant was a friend of his and that he made very good coffee.

Then he was silent.

Neither La Grande Sauterelle nor Jack dared to ask the identity of the people who went out the side door into the garden.

“He makes very good coffee,” the old man repeated softly.

Then he was silent until Fort Hall.

As they were turning off route 30 to the campground, the old man asked them to stop.

“I’ll get out here,” he said, standing up.

“You aren’t coming to the campground?” asked the girl.

“Costs too much.”

The girl looked at Jack and decided. “Be our guest!”

“Well, if you insist . . . !” said the old man, laughing.

“We insist,” said Jack.

About six o’clock, Jack was making spaghetti and meat sauce while La Grande Sauterelle was at the swimming pool. The old man was off by himself; he was sitting at the foot of a tree reading The Valley of the Moon by Jack London, his favourite author.

The girl came back. When she saw that Jack had made enough spaghetti for three, she suggested they invite the old man.

“I’ll go and get him,” she said.

She draped a big beach towel over her head and shoulders and went to find the old man. He accepted with pleasure but insisted on bringing his “modest contribution.”

Jack set the table, then took a can opener and opened the old man’s “contribution”: a can containing half a dozen little sausages.

“Oh!” he said. “Sausages!”

“German sausages,” said the old man.

“Ah!”

“Cooked in beer.”

“Oh!”

The German sausages cooked in beer weren’t exactly the sort of thing Jack liked at suppertime, with his delicate stomach, but he was glad to see them, anyway, for he had imagined the can filled with a good three or four dozen sardines swimming in oil.

He couldn’t stand sardines.

“Do you think I could add the sausages to the spaghetti sauce?” he asked La Grande Sauterelle.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said, “but why not?”