as it emphasized her departure.
I let the McVey sweep out of my mind.
“Twyla,” I took her cold hands in mine, “you’d better go on home. I’ve got to figure out how to find the Francher kid.”
The swift movement of her hands protested. “But I want-“
“I’m sorry, Twyla. I think it’d be better.”
“Okay.” Her shoulders relaxed in acquiescence.
Just as she left, Mrs. Somanson bustled in. “Y’ better come on out to the table and have a cup of coffee,” she said. I straightened wearily.
“That McVey! She’d drive the devil to drink,” she said cheerfully. “Well, I guess people are like that. I’ve had more teachers over the years say that it wasn’t the kids they minded but the parents.” She shooed me through the door and went to the kitchen for the percolator. “Now I was always one to believe that the teacher was right-right or wrong-” Her voice faded out in a long familiar story that proved just the opposite of what she’d said, as I stared into my cup of coffee, wondering despairingly where in all this world I could find the Francher kid. After the episode of the gossip I had my fears. Still, oftentimes people who react violently to comparatively minor troubles were seemingly unshaken by really serious ones-a sort of being at a loss for a proportionate emotional reaction.
But what would he do? Music-music-he’d planned to buy the means for music and had lost the wherewithal. Now he had nothing to make music with. What would he do first? Revenge-or find his music elsewhere? Run away? To where? Steal the money? Steal the music? Steal!
I snapped to awareness, my abrupt movement slopping my cold coffee over into the saucer. Mrs. Somanson was gone. The house was quiet with the twilight pause, the indefinable transitional phase from day to night.
This time it wouldn’t be only a harmonica! I groped for my crutches, my mind scrabbling for some means of transportation.
I was reaching for the doorknob when the door flew open and nearly bowled me over.
“Coffee! Coffee!” Dr. Curtis croaked, to my complete bewilderment. He staggered over, all bundled in his hunting outfit, his face ragged with whiskers, his clothes odorous of campfires and all out-of-doors, to the table and clutched the coffeepot. It was very obviously cold.
“Oh, well,” he said in a conversational tone. “I guess I can survive without coffee.”
“Survive what?” I asked.
He looked at me a moment, smiling, then he said, “Well, if I’m going to say anything about it to anyone it might as well be you, though I hope that I’ve got sense enough not to go around babbling indiscriminately. Of course it might be a slight visual hangover from this hunting trip-you should hunt with these friends of mine sometime-but it kinda shook me.”
“Shook you?” I repeated stupidly, my mind racing around the idea of asking him for help in finding the Francher kid.
“A somewhatly,” he admitted. “After all there I was, riding along, minding my own business, singing, lustily if not musically, ‘A Life on the Ocean Waves,’ when there they were, marching sedately across the road.”
“They?” This story dragged in my impatient ears.
“The trombone and the big bass drum,” he explained.
“The what!” I had the sensation of running unexpectedly into a mad tangle of briars.
“The trombone and the big bass drum,” Dr. Curtis repeated.
“Keeping perfect time and no doubt in perfect step, though you couldn’t thump your feet convincingly six feet off the ground. Supposing, of course, you were a trombone with feet, which this wasn’t.”
“Dr. Curtis,” I grabbed a corner of his hunting coat. “Please, please? What happened? Tell me! I’ve got to know.”
He looked at me and sobered. “You are taking this seriously, aren’t you?” he said wonderingly.
I gulped and nodded.
“Well, it was about five miles above the Half Circle Star Ranch, where the heavy pine growth begins. And so help me, a trombone and a bass drum marched in the air across the road, the bass drum marking the time-though come to think of it, the drumsticks just lay on top. I stopped the jeep and ran over to where they had disappeared. I couldn’t see anything in the heavy growth there, but I swear I heard a faint Bronx cheer from the trombone. I have no doubt that the two of them were hiding behind a tree, snickering at me.” He rubbed his hand across his fuzzy chin. “Maybe I’d better drink that coffee, cold or not.”
“‘Dr. Curtis,” I said urgently, “can you help me? Without waiting for questions? Can you take me out there? Right now?” I reached for my coat. Wordlessly he helped me on with it and opened the door for me. The day was gone and the sky was a clear aqua around the horizon, shading into rose where the sun had dropped behind the hills. It was only a matter of minutes before we were roaring up the hill to the junction. I shouted over the jolting rattle.
“It’s the Francher kid,” I yelled. “I’ve got to find him and make him put them back before they find out.”
“Put who back where?” Dr. Curtis shouted into the sudden diminution of noise as we topped the rise, much to the astonishment of Mrs. Frisney, who was pattering across the intersection with her black umbrella protecting her from the early starshine.
“It’s too long to explain,” I screamed as we accelerated down the highway. “But he must be stealing the whole orchestra because Mrs. McVey bought him a new suit, and I’ve got to make him take them back or they’ll arrest him, then heaven help us all.”
“You mean the Francher kid had that bass drum and trombone?” he yelled.
“Yes!” My chest was aching from the tension of speech. “And probably all the rest.”
