“Good,” said Henry, with an enthusiasm that made up for Taine’s lack of it. “I’ll have the boys cart it over tomorrow. It’s a heavy thing. I’ll send along plenty of help to get it unloaded and down into the basement and set up.”

Henry stood up carefully and brushed cigar ashes off his lap.

“I’ll have the boys pick up the TV set at the same time,” he said.

“I’ll have to tell Abbie you haven’t got it fixed yet. If I ever let it get into the house, the way it’s working now, she’d hold onto it.”

Henry climbed the stairs heavily and Taine saw him out the door into the summer night.

Taine stood in the shadow, watching Henry’s shadowed figure go across the Widow Taylor’s yard to the next street behind his house. He took a deep breath of the fresh night air and shook bis head to try to clear his buzzing brain, but the buzzing went right on.

Too much had happened, he told himself. Too much for any single day—first the ceiling and now the TV set. Once he had a good night’s sleep he might be in some sort of shape to try to wrestle with it.

Towser came around the corner of the house and limped slowly up the steps to stand beside his master. He was mud up to his ears.

“You had a day of it, I see,” said Taine. “And, just like I told you, you didn’t get the woodchuck.”

“Woof,” said Towser, sadly.

“You’re just like a lot of the rest of us,” Taine told him, severely. “Like me and Henry Horton and all the rest of us. You’re chasing something and you think you know what you’re chasing, but you really don’t. And what’s even worse, you have no faint idea of why you’re chasing it.”

Towser thumped a tired tail upon the stoop.

Taine opened the door and stood to one side to let Towser in, then went in himself.

He went through the refrigerator and found part of a roast, a slice or two of luncheon meat, a dried-out slab of cheese and half a bowl of cooked spaghetti. He made a pot of coffee and shared the food with Towser.