At the sound of our entry, the old man looked up from his work without a hint of surprise or dismay.
—May I help you?
After the three of us had taken a few steps, Woolly nudged Billy one step more.
—Ask him, he encouraged.
Billy cleared his throat.
—Are you Professor Abacus Abernathe?
After moving his reading glasses to the top of his head, the old man tilted the shade of his lamp so that he could get a better look at the three of us. Though mostly, he trained his gaze on Billy, having understood in the instant that the boy was the reason we were there.
—I am Abacus Abernathe, he replied. What can I do for you?
Although there seemed to be no end to the things that Billy knew, apparently what he did not know was what Abacus Abernathe could do for him. Because rather than give an answer, Billy looked back at Woolly with an unsure expression. So Woolly spoke on his behalf.
—We’re sorry to interrupt you, Professor, but this is Billy Watson from Morgen, Nebraska, who’s just arrived in New York City for the very first time. He is only eight years old but he has read your Compendium of adventurers twenty-four times.
Having listened to Woolly with interest, the professor shifted his gaze back to Billy.
—Is that so, young man?
—It is so, said Billy. Except that I have read it twenty-five times.
—Well, said the professor, if you have read my book twenty-five times and have come all the way from Nebraska to New York City to tell me so, then the least I can do is offer you a chair.
With an open hand, he invited Billy to take one of the high-back chairs in front of his desk. For Woolly and me, he gestured to the couch by the bookcase.
Let me say right now that it was a very nice couch. It was upholstered with dark brown leather, pinpointed with shiny brass rivets, and almost as big as a car. But if three people who come into a room accept a fourth person’s offer of a seat, then no one’s going anywhere anytime soon. It’s human nature. Having taken all the trouble of making themselves comfortable, people are going to feel the need to chew the fat for at least half an hour. In fact, if they run out of things to say after twenty minutes, they’ll start making them up just to be polite. So when the professor offered us the seats, I opened my mouth with every intention of observing that it was getting quite late and our car was at the curb. But before I could get a word out, Billy was climbing onto the high-back chair and Woolly was settling into the couch.
—Now tell me, Billy, said the professor—once we were all irreparably ensconced—what brings you to New York?
As conversations go, it was a classic opener. It was the sort of question that any New Yorker would ask a visitor with a reasonable expectation of a one-or two-sentence reply. Like I’m here to see my aunt, or We have tickets for a show. But this was Billy Watson, so instead of one or two sentences, what the professor got was the whole megillah.
Billy started back in 1946, on the summer night that his mother walked out on them. He explained about Emmett’s doing the hitch at Salina and his father dying of cancer and the brothers’ plan to follow the trail of a bunch of postcards so that they could find their mother at a fireworks display in San Francisco on the Fourth of July. He even explained about the escapade and how since Woolly and I had borrowed the Studebaker, he and Emmett had to hitch a ride to New York on the Sunset East.
—Well, well, well, said the professor, who hadn’t missed a word. And you say that you traveled to the city by freight train?
—That’s where I began your book for the twenty-fifth time, said Billy.
—In the boxcar?
—There wasn’t a window, but I had my army surplus flashlight.
—How fortuitous.
—When we decided to go to California and make a fresh start, Emmett agreed with you that we should only carry what we could fit in a kit bag. So I put everything I need in my backpack.
Having leaned back in his chair with a smile, the professor suddenly leaned forward again.
—You wouldn’t happen to have the Compendium in your backpack now?
—Yes, said Billy. That’s just where I have it.
—Then, perhaps I could inscribe it for you?
—That would be terrific! exclaimed Woolly.
At the professor’s encouragement, Billy slid off the high-back chair, took off his backpack, undid the straps, and removed the big red book.
—Bring it here, said the professor with a wave of the hand. Bring it over here.
When Billy came around the desk, the professor took the book and held it under his light in order to appreciate the wear and tear.