k building
that served Mr. Wicker as both house and place of business. Chris
paused to look below him. Even from where he stood, fifty feet above
the house, the slope of the hill was sharp and the plan of the house
below him could be plainly seen.

It was built like an inverted L, the short wing faced towards the
street and the traffic of Wisconsin Avenue. The longer wing, toward
the back, had a back door that opened onto Water Street. The space
between the house and Wisconsin Avenue had been made into a neat
oblong flower garden, fenced off from the sidewalk by box shrubs and a
white picket fence. Behind it, along the other side of the long wing,
lay a meticulously arranged vegetable garden and a few apple trees.

His gaze moved back to the house itself. It seemed to have been built
at about the same time as the vacant storehouses opposite, for they
had a similar look of design and age. The windows of Mr. Wicker's
house had smaller panes of glass than were used nowadays, and like the
warehouses across from it, Mr. Wicker's had many dormer windows
jutting out from the slated roof. Unlike the warehouses, however,
which were rickety and down-at-heel, Mr. Wicker's home was well cared
for. The windows--except for the bow window of the shop to the right
of the front door--had shutters painted a pleasing bluey-green, and at
their sides could be seen the edges of gay curtains. The traffic
freeway rose high above the roof, dwarfing the old house and casting
a deepening shadow over the whole length of Water Street, shading even
Mr. Wicker's back door, so close did it rise beside the house. The air
was filled with mechanical sounds--the roar of cars speeding up the
hill, the grind of gears, the shuddering throb of wheels along the
freeway, and the clanking bang of chains and weights in the factories
along the shore.

[Illustration]

The sun was dropping, and the sky behind Chris made a sinister promise
for the following day. A livid yellow stained the horizon beyond the
factories and gray clouds lowered and tumbled above. The air was
growing chill and Chris decided to finish his job. All at once he
wondered how his mother was, and everything in him pinched and
tightened itself.

At the foot of the hill he reached the house. As he came to the bow
front the old familiar excitement that always seized Chris when he
looked in Mr. Wicker's window touched him again, and he stopped to
look at its well-memorized display.

For as