them as ain't met. You're
not goin' to the college?" He pronounced it "collitch."

Janet Bagley shook her head and took a piece of paper from her bag. "Mr.
Charles Maxwell, Rural Route Fifty-three, Martin's Hill Road," she read.
Her daughter began to whimper.

The station-master frowned. "Hum," he said, "that's the Herm--er, d'you
know him?"

Mrs. Bagley said: "I've never met him. What kind of a man is he?"

That was the sort of question the station-master appreciated. His job was
neither demanding nor exciting; an opportunity to talk was worth having.
He said cheerfully, "Why, I don't rightly know, ma'am. Nobody's ever seen
him."

"Nobody?"

"Nope. Nobody. Does everything by mail."

"My goodness, what's the matter with him?"

"Don't rightly know, ma'am. Story is he was once a professor and got in
some kind of big explosion. Burned the hide off'n his face and scarred up
his hands something turrible, so he don't want to show himself. Rented
the house by mail, pays his rent by mail. Orders stuff by mail. Mostly
not real U-nited States Mail, y'know, because we don't mind dropping off
a note to someone in town. I'm the local mailman, too. So when I find a
note to Herby Wharton, the fellow that owns the general store, I drop it
off. Margie Clark over at the bank says he writes. Gets checks from New
York from publishing companies." The station-master looked around as if
he were looking for Soviet spies. "He's a scientist, all right. He's
doin' something important and hush-hush up there. Lots and lots of boxes
and packin' cases I've delivered up there from places like Central
Scientific and Labotory Supply Company. Must be a smart feller. You
visitin' him?"

"Well, he hired me for housekeeper. By mail." Mrs. Bagley looked puzzled
and concerned.

Little Martha began to cry.

"It'll be all right," said the station-master soothingly. "You keep your
eye open," he said to Mrs. Bagley. "Iff'n you see anything out of line,
you come right back and me and the missus will give you a lift. But he's
all right. Nothin' goin' on up there that I know of. Fred Riordan--he's
the sheriff--has watched the place for days and days and it's always
quiet. No visitors. No nothin'. Know what I think? I think he's
experimenting with something to take away the burn scars. That's whut
I think. Well, hop in and I'll drive you out there."

"Is it going to cost much?"

"Nothin' this trip. We'll charge it to the U-nited States Mail. Got a