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with ink.
    “Never mind that. Let’s hear what happened over there.”
    Alex told them.
    “The poor soul,” Maude said. “I’ve never liked cats myself. You can’t tell when they’ll turn on you. Regular Judases. What do you think’s fishy about it?”
    “I’ve got a feeling something’s missing out of the house, Maude. It’s as bare as a bone.”
    “Did you talk to Mabel Turnsby? She’s had an eye on him for thirty years. I think she’d have married him yesterday if he’d have had her.”
    “That’s a dirty crack.”
    “Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Up till ten or fifteen years ago I’d have done it myself.”
    “Why then?”
    “He was a handsome man, Alex. I was shocked to find out how old he was.”
    “Do you remember anything about him, Joan?”
    “Not very much. We were frightened of him as youngsters. We used to call him ‘the cat man.’”
    “I wonder why a cat and not a dog,” Alex said. “I always associate cats with old ladies.”
    “That’s a silly association,” Maude said. “I had an experience with Mattson once. Not much of an experience. More an impression. You know how curious everybody was when old Henry Addison came to see him? Well, one day about three years ago I thought I’d stick my nose into it. When Mabel called—it was always her told us he was there—I went up and sat on her front porch with her the whole blessed day waiting for him to come out. I thought they were playing chess maybe. Anyway, along about four o’clock the chauffeur arrives and I got down by the gate. The chauffeur tried to get rid of me every way, but I stuck it out till Addison came down the steps.
    “‘Mr. Addison,’ says I, ‘the Hillside Sentinel would like to do a story on you and Mr. Mattson, such old friends, and you being famous and all that.’
    “Addison looked me over and called off the chauffeur. Mattson was standing on the porch grinning down on us like the devil himself. ‘I think Mr. Mattson would be the person for you to approach,’ says the big bug, ‘especially since he’s a member of your community.’
    “I knew what I’d get out of Andy—what the little boy shot at, so I stood my ground. ‘We’d like to have a few words from you about him, Mr. Addison,’ says I. ‘It would be important, you commenting on one of our people.’ I never felt Andy was one of our people but I said it anyway. Addison was flustered, I could see that. He hedged around as though he could feel Andy’s eyes on the back of his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t oblige you, madam,’ he says. ‘Mr. Mattson’s a very humble man. But he is the smartest man I have ever known.’
    “With that he turns, nods to Andy, and gives his arm to the chauffeur. Old Andy was leaning against a porch pillar, almost as tall and thin as it was. He just threw back his head and laughed like a man of forty. I was mad, spitting mad, and I could see old Turnsby’s white top bobbing around the windows like a ping-pong ball.”
    Alex stepped on his cigarette. “I get more interested in Andy Mattson every turn I take,” he said. “Now I better get home. Dad’ll be wanting to know what’s happened.”
    “He’s called a couple of times,” Joan said. “Alex, did you pick up the Three Corners’ news this morning?”
    “I’m sorry, honey. I’ve had it in my pocket all day.” He took several hand written pages from his pocket and gave them to her.
    “If Jennie Williams wore another lovely brocade dress, I’ll scream,” she said.
    “Are you coming out to the ball game tonight?” he asked.
    “I imagine.”
    “Good.”
    “Alex, did you get over to the library?” Maude asked. “Some people like those ‘library jottings,’ and I know Stella well enough to know she won’t come around till you do.”
    He had run a letter in the last Sentinel from the English teacher calling the librarian on a dangling participle in one of her reviews. “I’ll make it in time,” he said. “I’ll bet she has them