In the gathering gloom of the beech woods, a silver-throated thrush sang
its evening song. Then, starting where it had ended, the thrush repeated
the same notes backwards. Ted paused to listen and Tammie halted beside
him. The boy grinned faintly. Because it first seemed to wind itself up
and then to unwind, Al had always insisted on calling this thrush the
"winder bird." It was, Ted supposed, as good a name as any.
Tammie sat down and turned a quizzical head to look at the harness he
was wearing and, for excellent reasons, could wear only at night. Ted
himself had made the harness from a discarded pack sack. It had a chest
strap to keep it from sliding backwards, a belly strap to prevent it
from falling off, and on either side was a spacious pocket with a flap
that could be fastened. Right now, the pack was laden with thirty pounds
of junk that Ted had picked up around the house.
Tammie tried to scrape the harness off with his right hind paw. Ted
stooped to pet and coax him.
"Come on, Tammie. Come on. That's a good boy!"
Tammie sighed and got to his feet. He didn't know why he was thus
burdened and he had no aspirations whatever to become a pack dog. But if
Ted wanted it, he would try to do it. He followed to the end of the
drive and stood expectantly while Ted opened the mailbox.
The metropolitan daily in which Ted had placed his ad, and that was
always delivered to the Harknesses a day late, lay on top. Beneath were
thirteen letters.
Ted's heart began to pound. He'd watched the mail every day, but except
for the paper, the usual hopeful bulletins addressed to "occupant," and
a few miscellaneous items, there had been nothing interesting. Ted had
almost despaired of getting anything, but he realized, as he stood with
the letters in his hand, that he hadn't allowed hunters enough time to
answer his ad.
The thirteen letters represented more first-class mail than the
Harknesses usually received in three months, and Ted held them as though
they burned his fingers. They were important, perhaps the most important
letters he had ever had or ever would have, for the future of the
Harknesses could depend on what was in them.
Ted ran back up the drive. Running with him, Tammie was too busy to pay
attention to the obnoxious pack. Ted burst into the house, slammed the
door behind him, laid the letters and papers on the table and knelt to
take the pack from Tammie. He thrust it, still laden, into the darkest
corner of a dark closet and turned excitedly back to the mail.
Sighing with relief, Tammie curled up on his bearskin. Ted looked at the
sheaf of letters. Except for two, they were addressed in longhand. He
picked one up, made as though to open it then put it back down. If the
news was good, it would be very good. If bad, it would be very bad. His
eye fell on a box on the paper's front page.