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Ethan
Allen
Hawley
’
s
quiet
,
dim
,
and
inward
day
was
done
.
The
man
who
swept
the
morning
pavement
with
metronomic
strokes
was
not
the
man
who
could
sermonize
to
canned
goods
,
not
a
unimum
unimorum
man
,
not
even
a
silly
-
billy
man
.
He
gathered
cigarette
ends
and
gum
wrappers
,
bud
cases
from
the
pollenizing
trees
,
and
simple
plain
dust
in
the
sweep
of
his
broom
and
moved
the
windrow
of
derelict
toward
the
gutter
,
to
await
the
town
men
with
their
silver
truck
.
Mr
.
Baker
took
his
measured
decent
way
from
his
house
on
Maple
Street
toward
the
red
brick
basilica
of
a
First
National
Bank
.
And
if
his
steps
were
not
of
equal
length
,
who
was
to
know
that
out
of
ancient
habit
he
avoided
breaking
his
mother
’
s
back
?
"
Good
morning
,
Mr
.
Baker
,
"
Ethan
said
and
held
his
stroke
to
save
the
banker
’
s
neat
serge
pants
from
dust
.
"
Morning
,
Ethan
.
Fine
morning
.
"
"
Fine
,
"
said
Ethan
.
"
Spring
’
s
in
,
Mr
.
Baker
.
Groundhog
was
right
again
.
"
"
He
was
,
he
was
.
"
Mr
.
Baker
paused
.
"
I
’
ve
been
wanting
to
talk
to
you
,
Ethan
.
That
money
your
wife
got
by
her
brother
’
s
will
—
over
five
thousand
,
isn
’
t
it
?
"
"
Sixty
-
five
hundred
after
taxes
,
"
Ethan
said
.
"
Well
,
it
’
s
just
lying
in
the
bank
.
Ought
to
be
invested
.
Like
to
talk
to
you
about
that
.
Your
money
should
be
working
.
"
"
Sixty
-
five
hundred
dollars
can
’
t
do
much
work
,
sir
.
It
can
only
stand
by
for
emergencies
.
"
"
I
’
m
not
a
believer
in
idle
money
,
Ethan
.
"
