They had driven perhaps a hundred feet through town when Willy kicked the brakes. A great shower of rust flakes sifted from the jalopy fenders. The car stood cowering in the road.

'Something's wrong,' said Willy. He squinted his lynx eyes this way and that. He snuffed his huge nose. 'You feel it? You smell it?'

'Sure,' said Samuel, uneasily, 'but, what…?'

Willy scowled. 'You ever see a sky–blue cigar–store?'

'Never did.'

'There's one over there. Ever see a pink dog–kennel, an orange out–house, a lilac–coloured bird–bath? There, there, and over there!'

Both men had risen slowly now to stand on the creaking floorboards.

'Samuel,' whispered Willy. 'Every kindling pile, porch–rail, gewgaw gingerbread, fence, fireplug, garbage truck, the whole blasted town, look at it! It was painted just an hour ago!'

'No!' said Samuel Fitts.

But there stood the band pavilion, the Baptist church, the firehouse, the orphanage, the railroad depot, the country jail, the cat hospital and the bungalows, cottages, greenhouses, shop–signs, mailboxes, telephone poles, and trash–bins, around and in between, and they all blazed with corn yellow, crab–apple greens, circus reds. From water–tank to tabernacle, each building looked as if God had jig–sawed it, coloured it, and set it out to dry a moment ago.

Not only that, but where weeds had always been, now cabbages, green onions, and lettuce crammed every yard, crowds of curious sunflowers clocked the noon sky, and pansies lay under unnumbered trees cool as summer puppies, their great damp eyes peering over rolled lawns mint–green as Irish travel posters. To top it all, ten boys, faces scrubbed, hair brilliantined, shirts, pants, and tennis shoes clean s chunks of snow, raced by.

'The town,' said Willy, watching them run, 'has gone mad. Mystery. Mystery everywhere. Samuel, what kind of tyrant's come to power? What law was passed that keeps boys clean, drives people to paint every toothpick, every geranium pot? Smell that smell? There's fresh wallpaper in all those houses! Doom in some horrible shape has tried arid tested these people. Human nature doesn't just get this picky perfect overnight. I'll bet all the gold I panned last month those attics, those cellars are cleaned out, all shipshape. I'll bet you a real Thing fell on this town.'