Ford seventeen miles to put the porker in the smoke-house for winter bacon and ham.
"Smoke cured ham," said Uncle Joe, "is good for the lining of the stomach. Never does deteriorate. When I was a lad fighting side by side with Joe E. Johnston back of Vicksburg, we once captured a wagon load of northern hams from the Yanks. They were spoiled and they were the only spoiled hams I ever did see. Northern smokin', I'd say, northern smokin'.
"As for you, boy, better you'd keep out of them cities. We ain't been needing underground railways here. You couldn't have fallen offa one and nearly had your leg cut off. Better if you'd stayed at home."
He climbed the steps to his father's office in the Lowell block. Stairs creaked under his weight, the old glazed glass door opened. Dad sat behind the ancient roll-top desk. He was aging rapidly, skin tightening, yet he was only fifty-six. Now he was happy. His eyes gleamed at the sight of his son.
"Does me good to see you on your own locomotion," George Gracey said. "Was it hard on you, climbing them there stairs?"
"No. I feel great."
"That's the stuff. Great. And so do I to hear you tell it."
The office had a distinctive odor. Yellowing papers. Dust. Clean dust.
"Same old Lowell Block," commented Ken.
"Yessiree—"
"What's happened to the old guy?"
"Didn't you read about it in the papers?"
"No."
"It was quite a case. You were on the road then or I'd a
