"Tell me, Homer. How can you sit on these hard chairs for so many hours?" Qwilleran asked.
"I bring an inflated cushion," said the historian. "Also a thermos of decaf, but don't tell Polly. The sign says: No food or beverages. I take my brown bag into the restroom every hour or so and have a swig."
Qwilleran nodded with understanding, knowing there was a shot of brandy in Homer's decaffeinated coffee. "How are you feeling these days?" The old man was wheezing audibly.
"I suffer the usual tweaks and twinges of advancing age, plus a touch of bronchitis from these dusty, mildewed records." He slapped his chest. "My tubes whistle. You can hear me all over the building. I'm trying to do a paper (whistle) on Moose County mines, 1850 to 1915."
"What do you know about the Trevelyan family?"
"They go back six generations, all descended from two brothers who came from Wales (whistle) to supervise the mines. Second generation built sawmills and founded Sawdust City." Mr. Tibbitt stopped for a coughing spell, and Qwilleran rushed to the water cooler for a cup of water. "Sorry about that," the old man apologized when the coughing was relieved. "Now, where was I?"
"Sawdust City," Qwilleran reminded him. "The Trevelyans."
"Believe it or not, that ugly little town was the county seat originally, when Pickax was only a bump in the road. When they switched government functions to Pickax because of (whistle) its central location, the Sawdusters rose up in arms and tried to secede from Moose County. All they accomplished was an independent school system."
"Do you know a Floyd Trevelyan, Homer? He's president of the Lumbertown Credit Union in Sawdust City."
"Can't say that I do. We Pickaxians are unmitigated snobs, you know. Are you aware you're living (whistle) in the old Trevelyan orchard? No one would touch the property for generations until you came along - a greenhorn from Down Below, heh heh heh."
"Because of snobbery?" Qwilleran asked.
"Because of the Trevelyan curse," the historian corrected him. "The apple trees withered, the farmhouse was struck by lightning, and the farmer hanged himself."
"Who pronounced the curse?"
"Nobody knows."
"For your information, Homer, Polly is building a house where the farmhouse used to be."
"Well, don't tell her (whistle) what I said."
"That's all right. She's not superstitious."
"Just the same, don't tell her," the old man warned.
After leaving the library, Qwilleran continued his walk downtown, making a few unscheduled visits for the purpose of sharing information:
To Scottie's Men's Store to look at summer shirts. Nothing caught his fancy, but he chatted with the proprietor and told him about the Party Train. To Edd's Editions, a shop specializing in pre-owned books from estate libraries. Eddington Smith was interested to hear about the Party Train because he had several books on railroads. Qwilleran bought one on the digging of the Panama Canal.
To the office of the newspaper which, for strange reasons, was named the Moose County Something. His longtime friend from Down Below, Arch Riker, was publisher and editor-in-chief and was pleased to hear about the Party Train.
To Toodle's Market to buy six ounces of sliced roast beef from the deli counter and two packages of macaroni and cheese from the frozen food chest. In the checkout line he stood behind Wally Toddwhistle's mother, who made costumes for the theatre club. She asked if he'd heard about A Midsummer Night's Dream, and he asked if she'd heard about the Party Train.
Returning to the barn, he found it good to be greeted by importunate yowls and waving tails, even though he knew the cats' real motive. He diced roast beef for them and heated both packages of macaroni and cheese for himself. Dicing, thawing, and pressing the button on the computerized coffeemaker were his only kitchen skills.
After dinner the three of them gravitated to the library area for a session of reading.
Qwilleran's growing collection of old books was organized according to category: biography, classic fiction, drama, and so forth. He added his new purchase to the history shelf. Yum Yum waited patiently for him to sit down and make a lap; Koko was alert and awaiting his cue.
"Book! Book!" It was one of several words understood by Kao K'o Kung, among them: treat, brush, leash, and NO! The cat surveyed the expanse of shelving before jumping up and teetering on the edge of the classic fiction collection. He sniffed the bindings critically, then pawed Swiss Family Robinson with enthusiasm.
A curious choice, Qwilleran thought. He realized it was mere coincidence but a provocative one, Koko having a unique sense of association. Yet, the connection between an 1813 Swiss novel and the inventor of Kabibbles was too absurd even for a willing believer like Qwilleran.
He sprawled in his favorite lounge chair and propped his feet on the ottoman. Yum Yum hopped lightly into his lap and turned around three times counterclockwise before settling down. Koko took his usual position on the arm of the chair, sitting tall.
Qwilleran opened the book, which he had; bought for its illustrations, and said, "This is a book primarily for young people but is suitable for cats of any age. There are chapters on... let's see... whales, turtles, ostriches, and bears. You'll like it. Chapter One: Shipwrecked and Alone."
Yum Yum was the first one to sigh and close her eyes; then Koko started swaying drowsily; finally Qwilleran, mesmerized by the sound of his own voice, read himself to sleep.
One afternoon, before his appointment
with the president of the Lumbertown Credit Union, Qwilleran drove to Sawdust City out of sheer curiosity. The town itself might be material for the "Qwill Pen" column. He knew only that it was the industrial hub of the county, straddling the mouth of the Ittibittiwassee River, where pollution was an ongoing problem. Although freight trains made regular runs to points Down Below, most manufactures were shipped by truck. Their tires constantly tracked mud from unpaved side streets onto the highway, giving the town the nickname of Mudville. Nevertheless, there was a healthy job market there, and Sawdust City was home to 5,000 working- class residents whose soccer team regularly trounced others in the county.
Outside the town limits Qwilleran noticed an athletic field with a running track, one softball diamond, and three soccer fields with goal nets - no tennis courts. There was also an extensive consolidated school complex with its own football stadium.
On Main Street there was plenty of downtown traffic as well as cafes, gas stations, churches, a storefront library, gun shops, pawn-brokers, apparel shops with racks of clothing on the sidewalk, taverns, and a video store. The Lumbertown Credit Union occupied a new version of an old depot, while the real railway station was a neglected relic on the outskirts of town, surrounded by tracks, boxcars, trucks, and warehouses. The residential neighborhoods were notable for their neat lawns, swarms of schoolchildren on summer vacation, basketball hoops, barbecues, and satellite saucers. In every sense it was a thriving town. Whether it would be material for the "Qwill Pen" was questionable. Qwilleran knew only that Sawdust City stood in sharp contrast to West Middle Hummock, where the Lumbertown president lived. This was the most fashionable of the Hummocks with the largest estates, owned by families like the Lanspeaks, the Wilmots, and - in happier days - the Fitches. When Qwilleran set out to interview Floyd Trevelyan his route lay out Ittibittiwassee Road between stony pastures and dark woods, past abandoned mines and ghostlike shafthouses. After passing the Buckshot Mine, where he had suffered a nasty tumble from his bike, he reached a fork in the road. Ahead was Indian Village, a more or less swanky complex of apartments and condominiums. Hummock Road branched off to the left, forming a triangular meadow where car- poolers left their vehicles. Share-the- ride had been a Moose County custom long before the first energy crisis; it was the neighborly thing to do and an opportunity to keep abreast of rumors. Beyond the meadow the road passed a blighted hamlet or two before emerging in a landscape of knobby hills, bucolic vistas, architect-designed farmhouses, and no utility poles. All cables were underground, and the road curved to avoid cutting down ancient trees.