tter get over and see the Dean."

An hour later, Danny was at the bus depot, waiting for the Greyhound
that would take him over to Richmond, where he would meet a train for
the south and Florida.

* * * * *

It was a rambling white stucco house with a red tile roof and a pleasant
grove of palm trees in front and flame-red hibiscus climbing the stucco.
The lawyer, whose name was Tartalion, met him at the door.

"I'll get right down to business, Mr. Jones," Tartalion said after they
had entered the house. "Your uncle wanted it that way."

"Wait a minute," Danny said, "don't tell me they already had the
funeral?"

"Your uncle didn't believe in funerals. His will stipulated cremation."

"But, it was so--"

"Sudden? I know, the will wasn't officially probated. But your uncle had
a judge for a friend, and under the circumstances, his wishes were
granted. Now, then, you know why you're here?"

"You mean, what he left me? I thought I'd at least get to see his--"

"His body? Not your uncle, not old Averill Jones. You ought to know
better. Sonny," the lawyer asked abruptly, "how well did you know the
old man?"

The sonny rankled. After all, Danny thought, I'm nineteen. I like beer
and girls and I'm no sonny anymore. He sighed and thought of his history
class, then thought of Uncle Averill's opinion of history, and felt
better. He explained the relationship to Mr. Tartalion and waited for
the lawyer to speak.

"Well, it beats me," Tartalion admitted. "Why he left it to a nephew he
hasn't seen in ten or eleven years, I mean. Don't just look at me like
that. You know that contraption he had in the basement, don't you? How
he wouldn't let a soul near it, ever? Then tell me something, Danny. Why
did he leave it to you?"

"You're joking!" Danny cried.

"I was your uncle's lawyer. I wouldn't joke about it. He said it was the
only thing he had worth willing. He said he willed it to you. Want me to
read you the clause?"

Danny nodded. He felt strangely flattered, because the contraption in
Averill Jones' basement--a contraption which no one but Averill Jones
had ever seen--had been the dearest thing in the old bachelor's life.
Actually, he was not Danny's uncle, but his grand-uncle. He had lived
alone in St. Augustine and had liked living alone. The only relative he
had tolerated was Danny, when Danny was a small boy. Then, as Danny
approached his ninth birthday, the old man had said, "The