ere enough returned
rejections to make Paul Brennan view Jimmy's literary effort with quiet
amusement. Still, slowly and in secret, Jimmy built up his bank balance
by twenties, fifties, an occasional hundred.

For above everything, by now Jimmy knew that he could not go on through
school as he'd planned.

If his entry into Fourth Grade had been against scowls and resentment
from his classmates, Fifth and Sixth would be more so. Eventually the day
would come when he would be held back. He was already mingling with
children far beyond his size. The same permissive school that graduated
dolts so that their stupid personalities wouldn't be warped would keep
him back by virtue of the same idiotic reasoning.

He laid his plans well. He covered his absence from school one morning
and thereby gained six free hours to start going about his own business
before his absence could be noticed.

This was his third escape. He prayed that it would be permanent.

BOOK TWO:

THE HERMIT

CHAPTER SEVEN

Seventy-five miles south of Chicago there is a whistle-stop called
Shipmont. (No ship has ever been anywhere near it; neither has a
mountain.) It lives because of a small college; the college, in turn,
owes its maintenance to an installation of great interest to the Atomic
Energy Commission.

Shipmont is served by two trains a day--which stop only when there
is a passenger to get on or off, which isn't often. These passengers,
generally speaking, are oddballs carrying attache cases or eager young
men carrying miniature slide rules.

But on this day came a woman and a little girl.

Their total visible possessions were two battered suitcases and one
battered trunk. The little girl was neatly dressed, in often-washed and
mended clothing; she carried a small covered basket, and there were
breadcrumbs visible on the lid. She looked bewildered, shy and
frightened. She was.

The mother was thirty, though there were lines of worry on her forehead
and around her eyes that made her look older. She wore little makeup and
her clothing had been bought for wear instead of for looks. She looked
around, leaned absently down to pat the little girl and straightened as
the station-master came slowly out.

"Need anything, ma'am?" He was pleasant enough. Janet Bagley appreciated
that; life had not been entirely pleasant for her for some years.

"I need a taxicab, if there is one."

"There is. I run it after the train gets in for