While he felt an underlying disappointment, he noticed that Mrs. Cobb was unusually elated. She talked vivaciously, laughed much, and accepted compliments without blushing. Something wonderful had happened to her, he guessed. She had won the state lottery, or she was a grandmother for the first time, or the mayor had appointed her to the Commission on Preservation. Whatever the reason, Mrs. Cobb was inordinately happy.

Then Qwilleran observed a pair of Old Timers sitting in a corner with their heads together. A frail woman dependent upon a walker was listening to an old man with a cane as he talked about the Picayune fire. Qwilleran inquired if they were enjoying the party.

"Good cookies," said the man, "but they shoulda put somethin' in the punch. Glad it didn't snow."

"We don't get out much after snow flies," said his companion. "I never saw such a grand house!"

"Couldn't hear a word at the meeting, though."

The woman sniffed. "Amos, you always sit in the back row, and you always complain you can't hear."

Qwilleran asked their names. "I'm Amos Cook, eighty-eight," the man said. "Eighty- eight and still cookin'. Heh heh heh." He jerked his thumb. "She's a young chick, eighty-five. Heh heh heh."

"I'm Hettie Spence, and I'll be eighty-six next month," she said. The Old Timers flaunted their ages like medals. "I was a Fugtree before I married Mr. Spence. He had the hardware store. We raised five children of our own — four of them boys — and three foster children. They all went to college. My eldest son is an ophthalmologist Down Below." She spoke with a fluttering of eyelids, hands, and shoulders.

"My grand-niece married one o' them," Amos put in.

"I wrote the obituaries for the Picayune before my arthritis got too bad," Hettie said. "I wrote the obituary for the last of the Klingenschoens."

"I read it," said Qwilleran. "It was unforgettable."

"My father wouldn't let me go away to college, but I took correspondence courses, and — "

Amos interrupted. "Her and me was in the pictures they took before the fire."

"How did you enjoy it?" Qwilleran asked. "Was the photographer good? How many pictures did she take?"

"Too many," he complained. "I got awful tired. I just had a gall bladder operation. She went click-click-click. Not like the old days. In them days you had to watch the birdie till your face froze, and the man had his head under a black cloth."

"In those days we had to say 'plum' before he snapped the picture," Hettie said. "We never had girl photographers then."

"Wouldn't let me smoke my corncob. Said it would fog up the pictures. Never heard anythin' so silly."

Qwilleran asked what time they left the newspaper office.

"My grandson picked us up at six," Amos said.

"Five," Hettie corrected him.

"Six, Hettie. Junior took the girl to the airport at half past five."

"Well, my watch said five, and I took my medication." "You forgot to wind it, and you took your pill too late. That's why you got a dizzy spell."

Qwilleran interrupted. "And the fire broke out about four hours later. Do you have any idea what caused it?"

The old couple looked at each other and shook their heads.

"How long had you worked at the Picayune, Mr. Cook?"

"I was a printer's devil when I was ten, and I stayed till I couldn't work no more." He patted his chest. "Weak ticker. But I got to be head pressman when Titus was alive. We had two men and a boy on them handpresses, and it took all day to print a couple of thousand. The paper sold for a penny then. You could get a whole year for a dollar."

Qwilleran remembered the book Polly had given him. "Would you good people come downstairs and look at an old picture of Picayune employees? You might be able to identify them."

"My eyes aren't very good," Hettie said. "Cataracts. And I don't move so fast since I broke my hip."

Nevertheless, Qwilleran conducted them to the library and produced his copy of Picturesque Pickax. He flicked on the tape recorder, and the interview was later transcribed by Lori Bamba.

Question: This is a picture of Picayune employees, taken sometime before 1921. Do you recognize any of the faces?

Amos: I'm not in the picture. Don't even know when it was took. But that's Titus Goodwinter in the middle — the one with the derby hat and handlebar moustache.

Hettie: He always wore a derby hat. Who's that next to Titus?

Amos: The one with arm garters? Don't know him.

Hettie: Was he the bookkeeper?

Amos: No, the bookkeeper has those black things on his sleeves. Bill Watkins, his name was.

Hettie: Bill was the sheriff. His cousin Barnaby kept books. I went to school with him. He was killed by a runaway horse and wagon.

Amos: It was the sheriff that tried to stop a runaway, Hettie. Barnaby was shot in the head with a rifle.

Hettie: I beg to differ. Barnaby didn't believe in firearms. I knew his whole family.

Amos: (loudly) I didn't say he had a gun! Some hunter shot him!

Hettie: I thought the sheriff always carried a gun. Amos: (louder) We're talking about the bookkeeper!

Barnaby! The one with black sleeve things! Hettie: Don't shout!

Amos: Well, anyway, the one with the derby hat is Titus Goodwinter.

Was Titus the founder of the newspaper?

Amos: Nope. Ephraim started the paper way back. Don't know when. Had a big funeral when he died. Hung himself.

Hettie: Ephraim "hanged himself, or so they said. Amos: On a big oak tree near the old plank bridge.

Is that when Titus started to manage the newspaper?

Amos: No, the oldest boy took over, but he got throwed by a horse.

Hettie: Millions of blackbirds rose out of a cornfield, and his horse bolted.

Amos: The blackbirds in them days was like the mosquitoes we got now.

Hettie: Titus ran the paper after that. My, he was spoiled! Once when the creek was swollen, his horse wouldn't cross it, and Titus jumped off in a rage and shot him.

Amos: His own horse! Shot him dead! That's Titus in a derby hat. Always wore a derby hat.

Who's the fierce-looking man at the end of the row?

Amos: That's the fellah that drove the wagon, eh, Hettie?

Hettie: That's Zack, all right. I never liked him. He drank.

Amos: Killed Titus in a fight and went to prison. Good driver, though. Had a pretty daughter. Ellie, her name was. Worked at the paper for a spell.

Hettie: Ellie folded papers and made tea and swept up.

Amos: Throwed herself in the river one dark night.

Hettie: Poor girl had no mother, and her father drank, and her brother was a bully.

Amos: Titus took a shine to her.

Hettie: He was always a ladies' man — him and that derby hat and big moustache.

End of interview.

Nigel Fitch interrupted the dialogue, saying he was ready to drive the two Old Timers home. All the guests were drifting out, reluctantly. Plucking Polly from the departing crowd, Qwilleran invited her to stay for an afterglow.

"One little glass of sherry, and then I must leave," she said as they went into the library. "Did you object to my involving you in the oral history project?"

"Not at all. It might prove interesting. Did you know that Senior's father was murdered and his grandfather hanged himself?”

"The family has had a violent history, but you must remember that this was pioneer country like the old Wild West, but at a later date. We're more civilized now."

"Computers and video recorders do not a civilization make."

"That's not Shakespeare, Qwill."

"I visited Mrs. Goodwinter yesterday," he said. "She was hardly one of your traditional widows, ravaged by grief and sedated by the family physician."

"She's a courageous woman. When they named her Gritty, they had reason."

“She's made some rather sudden decisions — to sell the house, auction the furnishings, and let the antique presses go for scrap metal. It's less than a week since Senior died, and the auction posters are allover town. That's too fast.”