So Exbridge had imposed the gag rule. Qwilleran had messed as much when having dinner with Dwight Som-ems. Finishing his drink, he went to the Corsair Room for jambalaya, a savory blend of shrimp, ham, and sausage. He had been on the island twenty-four hours, although it seemed like a week. There was something about an island that distorted time. There was also something about jam-balaya that made one heady.
He hailed a cab for the ride home—a spidery vehicle with a small body slung between two large spoked wheels that looked astonishingly delicate. He climbed in beside the lumpish old man holding the reins and said, "Do you know the Domino Inn on the west beach?"
"Ay-uh," said the cabbie. He was wearing the shapeless, colorless clothes of the islanders. "Giddap." The gig moved slowly behind a plodding horse with a swayback.
"Nice horse," Qwilleran said amiably.
"Ay-uh."
"What's his name?"
"Bob."
"How old is he?"
"Pretty old."
"Does he belong to you?"
"Ay-uh."
"Where do you keep him?"
"Yonder."
"How do you like this weather?" Qwilleran wished he had brought his tape recorder.
"Pretty fair."
"Is business good?"
"Pretty much."
"Have you always lived on the island?"
"Ay-uh."
"Do you get a lot of snow in winter?"
"Enough."
"Where is Piratetown?"
"Ain't none."
Eventually the cab reached the Domino Inn, and Qwilleran paid his fare plus a sizable tip. "What's your name?" he asked.
"John."
"Thanks, John. See you around."
The old man shook the reins, and the horse moved on.
CHAPTER 6
It was sunset time. Guests filled the porch swings as Qwilleran walked up the front steps of the inn.
"Beautiful evening," said the man who wore a French beret indoors and out. He spoke with a pleasant voice and a warmly benign expression on his wrinkled face.
"Yes, indeed," Qwilleran replied with a special brand of courtesy that he reserved for his elders. "I'm Arledge Harding, and this is my wife, Dorothy." "My pleasure. My name is Qwilleran—Jim Qwilleran." The retired vicar moved with a physical stiffness that added to his dignity. "We're quite familiar with your name, Mr. Qwilleran, being privileged to read your column in the Moose County newspaper. It's most refreshing! You write extremely well."
"Thank you. I was sorry to hear about your accident. Which was the faulty step?" "The third from the top, alas." "Were you walking down or coming up?"
"He was going down," said Mrs. Harding. "Fortunately he had hold of the railing. I always remind him to grip the handrail. It's strange, though. Arledge weighs like a feather, and that husky young man who rides a bicycle runs up and down the steps all the time—"
"But in the middle, my dear. I stepped on the end of the step, and the other end flew up in a seesaw effect. The carpenter blamed it on rusty nails, and I do believe the nails in this building are even older than I am."
His wife squirmed to get out of the wooden swing. "Do sit here, Mr. Qwilleran."
"Don't let me disturb you," he protested.
"Not at all. I have things to do indoors, and I'll leave my husband in your good hands ... Arledge, come inside if you feel the slightest chill."
When she had bustled away, Qwilleran said, "A charming lady. I didn't mean tp chase her away."
"Have no compunction. My dear wife will be glad of a moment's respite. Since my accident she feels an uxorial obligation to attend me twenty-four hours a day—and this for a single fractured rib. I tremble to think of her ceaseless attention if I were to break a leg. Such is the price of marital devotion. Are you married, Mr, Qwilleran?"
"Not any more, and not likely to try it again," said Qwilleran, taking the vacant seat in the creaking swing. "I understand you have visited the island in the past."
"Yes, Mrs. Harding and I are fond of islands, which is not to imply that we're insular in our thinking—just a little odd. Individuals who are attracted to islands, I have observed, are all a little odd, and if they spend enough of their lives completely surrounded by water, they become completely odd."
"I daresay you've noted many changes here."
"Quite! We were frequently guests of an Indianapolis family by the name of Ritchie—in the decades B.C. Before commercialization, I might add. The Ritchies would have deplored the current development. They were a mercantile family, good to their friends and employees and generous to the church, rest their souls."
Qwilleran said, "The name of Ritchie is connected with the Mackintosh clan. My mother was a Mackintosh."
"I recognized a certain sly Scottish wit in your writing, Mr. Qwilleran. I mentioned it to Mrs. Harding, and she agreed with me."
"What was this island like in the years B.C.?
Mr. Harding paused to reflect. "Quiet... in tune with nature ... and eminently restorative."
"Did the Ritchies have the lodge behind the high iron fence?"
"Gracious me! No!" the vicar exclaimed. "They were not at all pretentious, and they found delight in poking fun at those who were."
"Then who is the owner of The Pines? It looks like quite a compound."
