‘I thought Maine turned into Vacationland in the summer,’ Elise murmured.
‘Judging from what we’ve seen so far, I think Willow must be a little off the tourist track,’ he replied.
They got out of the car and mounted the porch steps. An elderly man in a straw hat sat in a rocker with a cane seat, looking at them from shrewd little blue eyes. He was fiddling a home-made cigarette together and dribbling little bits of tobacco on the dog which lay crashed out at his feet. It was a big yellow dog of no particular make or model. Its paws lay directly beneath one of the rocker’s curved runners. The old man took no notice of the dog, seemed not even to realize it was there, but the runner stopped a quarter of an inch from the vulnerable paws each time the old man rocked forward. Elise found this unaccountably fascinating.
‘Good day to ye, lady n man,’ the old gentleman said. ’Hello,’ Elise answered, and offered him a small, tentative smile.
‘Hi,’ John said. ‘I’m…’
‘Mr. Graham,’ the old man finished placidly. ‘Mr. and Missus Graham. Ones that took the Hempstead Place for the summer. Heard you was writin some kind of book.’
‘On the in-migration of the French during the seventeenth century,’ John agreed. ‘Word sure gets around, doesn’t it?’
‘It do travel,’ the old party agreed. ‘Small town, don’tcha know.’ He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, where it promptly fell apart, sprinkling tobacco all over his legs and the dog’s limp hide. The dog didn’t stir. ‘Aw, flapdoodle,’ the old man said, and peeled the uncoiling paper from his lower lip. ‘Wife doesn’t want me to smoke nummore anyway. She says she read it’s givin her cancer as well as m’ownself.’