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"
Far
-
traveling
.
You
make
that
up
?
"
"
Maybe
yes
and
maybe
no
.
"
"
Far
-
traveling
-
"
whispered
Tom
.
"
Only
one
thing
I
’
m
sure
of
,
"
said
Douglas
,
closing
his
eyes
.
"
It
sure
sounds
lonely
.
"
Bang
!
A
door
slammed
.
In
an
attic
dust
jumped
off
bureaus
and
bookcases
.
Two
old
women
collapsed
against
the
attic
door
,
each
scrabbling
to
lock
it
tight
,
tight
.
A
thousand
pigeons
seemed
to
have
leaped
off
the
roof
right
over
their
heads
.
They
bent
as
if
burdened
,
ducked
under
the
drum
of
beating
wings
.
Then
they
stopped
,
their
mouths
surprised
.
What
they
heard
was
only
the
pure
sound
of
panic
,
their
hearts
in
their
chests
.
.
.
Above
the
uproar
,
they
tried
to
make
themselves
heard
.
"
What
’
ve
we
done
!
Poor
Mister
Quartermain
!
"
"
We
must
’
ve
killed
him
.
And
someone
must
’
ve
seen
and
followed
us
.
Look
.
.
.
"
Miss
Fern
and
Miss
Roberta
peered
from
the
cobwebbed
attic
window
.
Below
,
as
if
no
great
tragedy
had
occurred
,
the
oaks
and
elms
continued
to
grow
in
fresh
sunlight
.
A
boy
strolled
by
on
the
sidewalk
,
turned
,
strolled
by
again
,
looking
up
.
In
the
attic
the
old
women
peered
at
each
other
as
if
trying
to
see
their
faces
in
a
running
stream
.
"
The
police
!
"
