He wrested the book away from Koko. It was Hamlet again. Before returning it to the shelf he sniffed it. Qwilleran had a keen sense of smell; but all he could detect was the odor of old book. He sniffed Macbeth and the other titles Koko had dislodged. They all smelled like old book. Then he compared the odor with titles that Koko had so far ignored: Othello, As You Like It, and Antony and Cleopatra. He had to admit they all smelled exactly the same — like old book. He went out to dinner.

8

Sunday, November seventeenth. “Light snow turning to freezing rain,” was the prediction. Actually, the sun was shining, and Qwilleran looked forward to taking a long walk.

Over the breakfast pancakes he apologized profusely to the housekeeper. “I’m really sorry about your herb garden, Mrs. Cobb. The pot he broke contained mint, which is related to catnip, I believe. Why he uprooted the others is a mystery. We’ll replace them all.”

“It won’t be that easy,” she said. “For of them were started from seed in a cold frame at Herb’s place. The others were plants, and we can’t buy them at this time of year.”

“There was no point in scolding him. Unless you catch a cat in the act and rap him on the nose, he doesn’t connect the reprimand with the misdemeanor. That’s what Lori Bamba said, and she knows all about cats. No doubt it was Yum Yum who stole the cigarettes. I found one under a rug and another behind a seat cushion.”

“And I found the empty pack under a rug in the upstairs hall,” Mrs. Cobb said.

“I’m afraid your evening got off to a bad start. Did you enjoy dinner?”

She pursed her lips, then admitted, “Well, we had a little argument. When eh found out that cigarette smoke is injurious to antiques, he said I can’t use them in the farmhouse. He’s practically a chain-smoker.”

“Could you use reproductions?”

“I hate copies, Mr. Q. I’ve lived too long with the real thing.”

“There must be some compromise.”

“I can think of one good compromise,” she said crisply. “He can give up his smelly habit. You don’t hear the surgeon general issuing any warnings against antiques!”

Qwilleran made sympathetic noises, then excused himself, saying he wanted to go out and buy a Sunday Fluxion.

He walked with a light step for two reasons. He sensed a rift between Mrs. Cobb and Hackpole that might forestall the marriage. And ... he received an invitation from Polly Duncan.

“Thursday is my day off,” she had said. “Why don’t you drive out to my cottage, and I’ll do a roast with Yorkshire pudding? Come before dark; the house is easier to find in daylight.”

He walked briskly. It was four miles around the periphery of Pickax, and on the way he met the fire chief, going into the drugstore for the Sunday Fluxion.

Qwilleran said, "Where's the snow that Moose County is famous for?"

"Couldna say, but this weather will do till the white stuff comes along."

"Explain something to me, Scottie. Pickax has a strange arrangement of streets. Nothing makes sense."

"It were laid out by two miners and a lumberjack on payday," said Scottie, "or so the story goes."

"How do the fire trucks ever find the right address? The city's bounded on the south by South Street — nothing wrong with that — but it's bounded on the north by East Street; on the west by North Street, and on the east by West Street. The ball field is at the corner of South North' Street and West South Street. It could drive a logical mind crazy."

"Dunna look for logic up here, laddie," said Scottie, shaking his shaggy gray head.

"Did the fire marshal fly up to investigate the Picayune fire?"

"We needna call him unless it looks like arson, or somebody dies in the fire. And this one, it were accidental combustion caused by oily rags and solvents in the pressroom."

"How can you tell when a fire has been set?"

"Are you plannin' a little arson, laddie?"

"Not in the foreseeable future, Scottie."

"Weel, if you do, avoid leavin' a two-gallon jerry can on the premises, painted red and smellin' like gasoline. And dunna throw the match too soon. The explosion can throw you out the door."

"Can you tell when the fire starts with an explosion?"

"Aye. If the door is blown off the hinges — that's one way. And if the walls are charred deep."

Qwilleran finished his walk, stopping for a cup of coffee at a diner on N. North Street and the Sunday paper at a party store on S. West Street.

In the afternoon, as he was reading the Fluxion and counting typographical errors, the doorbell rang, and when he went to the front entrance he found an elderly face peering from the hood of a parka.

"Good afternoon," said the caller in a cheerful high- pitched voice. "Do you have any mouseholes you want plugged?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mouseholes. I'm good at plugging mouseholes."

Qwilleran was puzzled. Workmen always came to the service entrance; they never came on Sunday; and they were usually much younger.

"I was just taking my constitutional," said the old man. "It's a nice day for a walk. I'm Homer Tibbitt from the Old Timers Club."

"Of course! I didn't recognize you in the parka. Come in!"

"I saw your cat parading around with a mouse at the party, and I thought you might have some mouseholes you want plugged. I'd do it gratis."

"Let me take your coat, and we'll sit down and talk about it. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"I'll take some if it's decaffeinated, and it won't hurt if you put a drop of brandy in it to start the old furnace working again."

They went into the library, Mr. Tibbitt walking vigorously with arms and legs flailing in awkward coordination. There was a fire in the grate, and he stood with his back to the warmth. "I'm used to old houses like this," he said. "I was volunteer custodian at the Lockmaster Museum in the county below. Have you heard of it?"

"Can't say that I have. I'm new up here."

"It was a shipbuilder's mansion — all wood construction — and I plugged fifty-seven mouseholes. In a stone house like this the mice have to be smarter, but we have smart mice in Pickax."

"What brought you up here to the Snow Belt, Mr. Tibbitt?"

"I was born here, and the old homestead was standing empty. There was another reason, too; a retired English teacher down in Lockmaster was chasing me. They like retired principals. I was principal of Pickax Upper School when I retired. I'm ninety-three. I started teaching school seventy years ago."

"You should have brought your English teacher to Pick- ax," Qwilleran said. "I've never heard so many butchered, verbs and pronouns."

The principal gave an angular gesture of despair. "We've always tried our best, but there's a saying up here — if you'll pardon the grammar: Country folks is different, and Moose County folks is more different."

Despite his creaking joints, the old man was enormously energetic, and Qwilleran said, "Retirement seems to agree with you, Mr. Tibbitt."

"Keep busy! That's the ticket! Now, if you want me to do a survey on the mousehole situation..."

Qwilleran hesitated. "We have a janitor, you know..."

"I've known Pat O'Dell since he was in the first grade. He's a good boy, but he hasn't made a study of mouse holes." "Before we launch a campaign against mus musculus, Mr. Tibbitt, I'd like to get some of your recollections on tape for the oral history program — that is, if you would be willing."

"Turn on the machine. Ask me some questions. Just give me another cup of coffee with a drop of brandy — make it two drops — and be sure it's decaffeinated."

The following interview with Homer Tibbitt was later transcribed:

Question: What can you tell us about the early schools in Moose County?

Beginning way back when my mother was a schoolmarm, they were built of logs — just one room with desks around the walls, hard benches with no backs, and a potbellied stove in the middle. And they were drafty! She taught in one school where the snow blew through the chinks, and there were rabbit tracks in the snow on the floor.