“Huh?” Will shook himself.

“You need a white-hat or a black-hat book?”

“Hats?” said Will.

“Well, Jim—” they perambulated, Dad running his fingers along the book spines—“he wears the black ten-gallon hats and reads books to fit. Middle name’s Moriarty, right, Jim? Any day now he’ll move up from Fu Manchu to Machiavelli here—medium-size dark fedora. Or over along to Dr. Faustus—extra large black Stetson. That leaves the white-hat boys to you, Will. Here’s Gandhi. Next door is St. Thomas. And on the next level, well… Buddha.”

“You don’t mind,” said Will, “I’ll settle for The Mysterious Island.”

“What,” asked Jim, scowling, “is all this talk about white and black hats?”

“Why—” Dad handed Jules Verne to Will—‘it’s just, a long time ago, I had to decide, myself, which color I’d wear.”

“So,” said Jim, “which did you pick?”

Dad looked surprised. Then he laughed uneasily.

“Since you need to ask, Jim, you make me wonder. Will, tell Mom I’ll be home soon. Get out of here, both of you. Miss Watriss!” he called softly to the librarian at the desk. “Dinosaurs and mysterious islands, coming up!”

The door slammed.

Outside, a weather of stars ran clear in an ocean sky.

“Heck.” Jim sniffed north, Jim sniffed south. “Where’s the storm? That darn salesman promised. I just got to watch that lightning fizz down my drainpipes!”

Will let the wind ruffle and refit his clothes, his skin, his hair. Then he said, faintly, “It’ll be here. By morning.”

“Who says?”

“The huckleberries all down my arms. They say.”

“Great!”

The wind flew Jim away.

A similar kite, Will swooped to follow.

Chapter 3