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him and I wasn’t in the mood for playing any checkers. Hiram was a rotten loser, too, and you had to let him win to keep him from getting nasty. Hiram and I had never got along too well together. He had been a bully on the schoolground and he and I had fought a dozen times a year. He always licked me, but he never made me say that I was licked, and he never liked me. You had to let Hiram lick you once or twice a year and then admit that you were licked and he’d let you be his friend. And there was a chance, as well, that Higman Morris would be there, and on a day like this, I couldn’t stomach Higgy. Higgy was the mayor, a pillar of the church, a member of the school board, a director of the bank, and a big stuffed shirt. Even on my better days, Higgy was a chore; I ducked him when I could.
    Or I could go up to the Tribune office and spend an hour or so with the editor, Joe Evans, who wouldn’t be too busy, because the paper had been put out this morning. But Joe would be full of county politics and the proposal to build a swimming pool and a lot of other things of lively public interest and somehow or other I couldn’t stir up too much interest in any one of them.
    I would go down to the Happy Hollow tavern, I decided, and take one of the booths in back and nurse a beer or two while I killed some time and tried to do some thinking. My finances didn’t run to drinking, but a beer or two wouldn’t make me much worse off than I was already, and there is, at times, an awful lot of comfort in a glass of beer. It was too early for many people to be in the place and I could be alone. Stiffy Grant, more than likely would be there, spending the dollar that I had given him. But Stiffy was a gentleman and a most perceptive person. If he saw I wanted to be by myself, he wouldn’t bother me.
    The tavern was dark and cool and I had to feel my way along, after coming in from the brilliance of the street. I reached the back booth and saw that it was empty, so I sat down in it. There were some people in one of the booths up front, but that was all there were.
    Mae Hutton came from behind the bar.
    â€œHello, Brad,” she said. “We don’t see much of you.”
    â€œYou holding down the place for Charley?” I asked her.
    Charley was her father and the owner of the tavern.
    â€œHe’s catching a nap,” she said. “It’s not too busy this time of day. I can handle it.”
    â€œHow about a beer?” I asked.
    â€œSure thing. Large or small?”
    â€œMake it large,” I told her.
    She brought the beer and went back behind the bar. The place was quiet and restful—not elegant, and perhaps a little dirty, but restful. Up front the brightness of the street made a splash of light, but it faded out before it go too far, as if it were soaked up by the quiet dusk that lurked within the building.
    A man got up from the booth just ahead of me. I had not seen him as I came in. Probably he’d been sitting in the corner, against the wall. He held a half-filled glass and he turned and stared at me. Then he took a step or two and stood beside my booth. I looked up and I didn’t recognize him. My eyes had not as yet become adjusted to the place.
    â€œBrad Carter?” he asked. “Could you be Brad Carter?”
    â€œYes, I could,” I said.
    He put his glass down on the table and sat down across from me. And as he did, those fox-like features fell into shape for me and I knew who he was.
    â€œAlf Peterson!” I said, surprised. “Ed Adler and I were talking about you just an hour or so ago.”
    He thrust his hand across the table and I grabbed it, glad to see him, glad for some strange reason for this man out of the past. His handclasp was firm and strong and I knew he was glad to see me, too.
    â€œGood Lord,” I said, “how long has it been?”
    â€œSix years,” he told me. “Maybe more than that.”
    We sat there,