- plied with a willow wand at his request, trimmed it
with his knife and whittled contentedly while conversation roamed from one subject to another. They were on a little-traveled road and the only vehicle to rattle across the bridge during their sojourn was an old buggy drawn by a fat gray horse and occupied by a roly-poly old man who gave them a cheerful "Afternoon, boys," and painstakingly forbore to stare at Loring. Loring's gaze followed the retreating figure and he smiled.
"He wanted so much to take a good look, too," said Loring. "Nice old codger. I almost wanted to tell him I didn't mind."
"I guess you're pretty used to it," Tom mused. "Say, how long have you been this way?
Clif looked startled, but Loring only smiled as he answered: "Sixteen years and seven months, Tom."
"Six—you mean always?"
"Ever since I was born."
"Gosh! Can't they do anything? What's it like?"
Clif thought the questions in rather poor taste and looked apologetic on his friend's behalf, but Loring didn't appear to mind. "They haven't done much yet," he answered. "I've been treated by a lot of doctors, here and abroad, but nothing much has come of it. My leg bones don't pick out the right food to grow on, it seems. They're too fond of lime. Calcification the doctors call it. That and a lot of other things. Usually each one has his own pet name for it. Anyway, there's too much chalk in those bones
