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hour.
    Even Grandmother paused here, after some burdensome time, as an aging animal seeks the watering place to be refreshed. And Grandfather was always here to offer cups of good clear Walden Pond, or shout down the deep well of Shakespeare and listen, with satisfaction, for echoes.
    Here the lion and the hartebeest lay together, here the jackass became unicorn, here on Saturday noon an elderly man could be found underneath a not too imaginary bough, eating bread in the guise of sandwiches and pulling briefly at a jug of cellar wine.
    Douglas stood on the edge of it all, waiting.
    â€˜Step forward, Douglas,’ said Grandfather.
    Douglas stepped forward, holding the gunnysack in one hand behind his back.
    â€˜Got anything to say, Douglas?’
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜Nothing at all about anything?’
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜What you been up to today, son?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜A busy nothing or a nothing nothing?’
    â€˜A nothing nothing, I guess.’
    â€˜Douglas.’ Grandpa paused to polish his gold–rimmed specs. ‘They say that confession is good for the soul.’
    â€˜They
do
say that.’
    â€˜And they must mean it or they wouldn’t say it.’
    â€˜I guess so.’
    â€˜Know it, Douglas,
know
it. Got anything to confess?’
    â€˜About what?’ said Douglas, keeping the gunnysack behind him.
    â€˜That’s what I’m trying to find out. You going to help?’
    â€˜Maybe you could give me a hint, sir.’
    â€˜All right. Seems there was flood tide down at the City Hall courthouse today. I hear a tidal wave of boys inundated the grass. You know
any
of them?’
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜Any of them know
you
?’
    â€˜If I don’t know them, how could they know me, sir?’
    â€˜Is that all you got to say?’
    â€˜Right now? Yes, sir.’
    Grandpa shook his head. ‘Doug, I told you, I know about the purloineds. And I’m sorry you think you can’t tell me about them. But I remember being your age, and getting caught red–handed at doing something I knew I shouldn’t do, but I did anyway. Yes, I remember.’ Grandpa’s eyes twinkled behind his specs. ‘Well, I think I’m holding you up, boy. I think you got somewhere to go.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Well, try to hurry it up. The rain’s still coming down, lightning all over town, and the town square is empty. If you run and let the lightning strike, maybe you’ll do a fast job of what you
should
be doing. Does that sound reasonable, Doug?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Well then, get to it.’
    Douglas started to back away.
    â€˜Don’t back off, son,’ said Grandpa. ‘I’m not royalty. Just turn around and skedaddle.’
    â€˜Skedaddle. Was that originally French, Grampa?’
    â€˜Hell.’ The old man reached for a book. ‘When you get back, let’s look it
up
!’

CHAPTER TWENTY
    Just before midnight, Doug woke to that terrible boredom that only sleep ensures.
    It was then, listening to Tom’s chuffing breath, deep in an ice–floe summer hibernation, that Doug lifted his arms and wiggled his fingers, like a tuning fork; a gentle vibration ensued. He felt his soul move through an immense timberland.
    His feet, shoeless, drifted to the floor and he leaned south to pick up the gentle radio waves of his uncle, down the block. Did he hear the elephant sound of Tantor summoning an ape–boy? Or, half through the night, had Grandpa, next door, fallen in a grave of slumber, dead to the world, gold specs on his nose, with Edgar Allan Poe shelved to his right and the Civil War dead, truly dead, to his left, waiting in his sleep, it seemed, for Doug to arrive?
    So, striking his hands together and wiggling his fingers, Doug made one final vibration of his literary tuning fork and moved with quiet intuition toward his grandparents’ house.
    Grandpa, in