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When his inner clock called him, he got up, quickly bathed and shaved, cooked and ate a large breakfast, cleaned his kitchen, removed all perishables from his icebox and emptied them into the garbage can on the rear service porch and turned the ice card around to read "NO ICE TODAY" and left fifteen cents on top of the icebox, emptied the drip pan.

There was a fresh quart of milk by the ice. He had not ordered it, but he had not specifically not ordered it. So he put six cents in an empty bottle, with a note telling the milkman not to leave milk until the next time he left money out.

He packed a grip-toilet articles, socks, underwear, shirts, and collars (to Lazarus, those high starched collars symbolized all the tightminded taboos of this otherwise pleasant age), then rapidly searched the apartment for everything of a personal nature. The rent was paid till the end of April; with good luck he expected to be in the Dora long before then. With bad luck he would be in South America-but with worse luck he would be somewhere else-anywhere- and under another name; he wanted "Ted Bronson" to disappear without a trace.

Shortly he had waiting at the front door a grip, an overcoat, a winter suit, a set of chessmen in ivory and ebony, and a typewriter. He finished dressing, being careful to place three envelopes and his ticket in an inner pocket of his suit coat. The money vest was too warm but not uncomfortable; the distributed weight was not bad.

He piled it all into the tonneau of the landaulet, drove to the southside postal substation, registered two letters, went from there to the pawnshop next to the Idle Hour Billiard Parlor. He noted with wry amusement that "The Swiss Garden" had its blinds down and a sign "CLOSED."

Mr. Dattelbaum was willing to accept the typewriter against a gun but wanted five dollars to boot for the little Colt pistol Lazarus selected. Lazarus let the pawnbroker conduct both sides of the dicker.

Lazarus sold the typewriter and the suit, left his overcoat and took back a pawn ticket, received the handgun and a box of cartridges. He was in fact giving Mr. Dattelbaum the overcoat since he had no intention of redeeming it-but Lazarus got what he wanted plus three dollars cash, had unloaded chattels he no longer needed, and had given his friend the pleasure of one last dicker.

The gun fitted into a left-side vest pocket Lazarus had retailored into a makeshift holster. Short of being frisked- most unlikely for so obviously respectable a citizen-it would not be noticed. A kilt was better both for concealment and for quick access-but it was the best he could manage with the clothes he had to wear, and this gun had had its front sight filed off by some practical-minded former owner.

He was now through with Kansas City save for saying good-bye to his first family-then grab the first Santa Fe rattler west. It distressed him that Gramp had gone to St. Louis, but that could not be helped, and this one time he would bull his way in, with a convincing cover story: The chess set as a present for Woodie was reason enough to show up in person, the bill of sale gave an excuse to speak to his father-No, sir, this is not exactly a present...but somebody might as well drive it until this war is over...and if by any chance I don't come back-well, this makes things simpler-you understand me, sir?-your father-in-law being my best friend and sort of my next of kin since I don't have any.

Yes, that would work and result in a chance to say goodbye to all the family, including Maureen. (Especially Maureen!) Without quite lying. Best way to lie.

Just one thing- If his father wanted to enlist him into his own outfit, then one lie must be used: Lazarus was dead set on joining the Navy. No offense intended, sir; I know you're just back from Plattsburg, but the Navy needs men, too.

But he would not tell that lie unless forced to.

He left his car hack of the pawnship, crossed the street to a drugstore, and telephoned:

"Is this the Brian Smith residence?"

'Yes, it is."

"Mrs. Smith, this is Mr. Bronson. May I speak to Mr. Smith?"

"This isn't Mama, Mr. Bronson; this is Nancy. Oh, isn't it terrible!"

"Yes, it is, Miss Nancy."

"You want to speak to Papa? But he's not here, he's gone to Fort Leavenworth. To report in-and we don't know when we'll see him again!"

"There, there-please don't cry. Please!"

"I was not crying. I'm just a teensy bit upset. Do you want to speak to Mama? She's here...but she's lying down."

Lazarus thought fast. Of course he wanted to speak to Maureen. But- Confound it, this was a complication. "Please don't disturb her. Can you tell me when your grandfather will be back in town?" (Could he afford to wait? Oh, damn!)

"Why, Grandpa got back yesterday."

"Oh. May I speak to him, Miss Nancy?"

"But he's not here, either. He went downtown hours ago. He might be at his chess club. Do you want to leave a message for him?"

"No. Just tell him I called...and will call again later. And, Miss Nancy-don't worry."

"How can I help worrying?"

"I have second sight. Don't tell anyone but it's true; an old gypsy woman saw that I had it and proved it to me. Your father is coming home and will not be hurt in this war. I know."

"Uh...I don't know whether to believe that or not-but it does make me feel better."

"It's true." He said good-bye gently, and hung up.

"Chess club-" Surely Gramp would not be loafing in a pool hail today? But since it was just across the street, he might as well see...before driving out to Benton and waiting in sight of the house for him to return.

Gramp was there, at the chess table but not even pretending to work a chess problem; he was simply glowering.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson."

Gramp looked up. "What's good about it? Sit down, Ted."

"Thank you, sir." Lazarus slid into the other chair. "Not much good about it, I suppose."

"Eh?" The old man looked at him as if just noticing his presence. "Ted, would you say that I was a man in good physical condition?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Able to shoulder a gun and march twenty miles a day?"

"I would think so." (I'm sure you could, Gramp.)

"That's what I told that young smart-alec at the recruiting station. He told me I was too old!" Ira Johnson looked ready to break into tears. "I asked him since when was forty-five too old?-and he told me to move aside, I was holding up the line. I offered to step outside and whip him and any two other men he picked. And they put me out, Ted, they put me out!" Gramp covered his face with his hands, then took them down and muttered, "I was wearing Army Blue before that snotty little shikepoke learned to pee standing up."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"My own fault. I fetched along my discharge...and forgot about its having my birth date on it. Look, Ted, if I dyed my hair and went back to St. Looie-or Joplin-that would work...wouldn't it?"

"Probably." (I know it didn't, Gramp...but I think you did manage to talk your way into the Home Guard. But I can't tell you that.)

"I'll do it! But I'll leave my discharge at home."

"In the meantime may I drive you home? My Tin Lizzie is around in back."

"Well...I suppose I've got to go home-eventually."

"How about a little spin out Paseo to cool off first?"

"That's a n'idee. If it won't put you out?"

"Not at all."

Lazarus drove around, keeping silent, until the old man's fuming stopped. When Lazarus noted this, he headed back and turned east on thirty-first Street, and parked. "Mr. Johnson, may I say something?"

"Eh? Speak up."

"If they won't take you-even with your hair dyed-I hope you won't feel too bad about it. Because this war is a terrible mistake."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said." (How much to tell him? How much can I get him to believe? I can't hold back altogether-this is Gramp...who taught me to shoot, and a thousand other things. But what will he believe?) "This, war won't do the slightest good; it will just make things worse."