“Will I meet him too?”

Mrs. Griffin looked discomfited by the question. “Maybe,” she said, her gaze averted. “But he’s a very private man.”

They were up on the landing by now, and Mrs. Griffin led Harvey pasta row of painted portraits to a room at the back of the House. It overlooked an orchard, and the warm air carried the smell of ripe apples into tile room.

“You look tired, my sweet,” Mrs. Griffin said. “Maybe you should lie down for a little while”

Harvey usually hated to sleep in the afternoon; it reminded him too much of having the flu, or the measles. But the pillow looked very cool and comfortable, and when Mrs. Griffin had taken her leave he decided to lie down, just for a few minutes.

Either he was more tired than he’d thought, or the calm and comfort of the House rocked him into a slumber. Whichever, his eyes closed almost as soon as he put his head on the pillow, and they did not open again until morning.

The sun came to wake him soon after dawn—a straight white dart of light, laid on his lids. He sat up with a start, wondering for a moment what bed this was, what room, what house. Then his memories of the previous day returned, and he realized that he’d slept through from late afternoon to early morning. The rest had strengthened him. He felt energetic, and with a whoop of pleasure he jumped out of bed and got dressed.

The House was more welcoming than ever today, the flowers Mrs. Griffin had set on every table and sill singing with color. The front door stood open, and sliding down the gleaming banisters Harvey raced out onto the porch to inspect the morning.

A surprise awaited him. The trees which had been heavy with leaves the previous afternoon had shed their canopies. There were new, tiny buds on every branch and twig, as though this were the first day of spring.

“Another day, another dollar,” said Wendell, ambling around the corner of the House.

“What does that mean?” said Harvey.

“It’s what my father used to say all the time. Another day, another dollar. He’s a banker, my dad, Wendell Hamilton the Second. And me, I’m—”

“Wendell Hamilton the Third.”

“How’d ya know?”

“Lucky guess. I’m Harvey.”

“Yeah, I know. D’ya like tree houses?”

“I never had one”

Wendell pointed up at the tallest tree. There was a platform perched up among the branches, with a rudimentary house built upon it.

“I’ve been working up there for weeks,” said Wendell, “but I can’t get it finished alone. Ya want to help me?”

“Sure. But I’ve got to eat something first.”

“Go eat. I’ll be around.”

Harvey headed back inside, and found Mrs. Griffin setting out a breakfast fit for a prince; There was milk spilt on the floor, and a cat with a tail hooked like a question mark lapping it up.

“Clue-Cat?” he said.

“Yes indeed,” Mrs. Griffin said fondly. “He’s the wicked one.”

Clue-Cat looked up, as if he knew he was being talked about. Then he jumped up onto the table and searched among the plates of pancakes and waffles for something more to eat.

“Can he do whatever he likes?” Harvey said, watching the cat sniff at this and that. “I mean, does nobody control him?”

“Ah, well, we all have somebody watching over us, don’t we?” Mrs. Griffin replied. “Whether we like it or not. Now eat. You’ve got some wonderful times, ahead of you.”

Harvey didn’t need a second invitation. He dug into his second meal at the Holiday House with even more appetite than he had the first, and then headed out to meet the day.

Oh, what a day it was!

The breeze was warm, and smelled of the green scent of growing things; the perfect sky was full of swooping birds. He sauntered through the grass, his hands in his pockets, like the lord of all he surveyed, calling to Wendell as he approached the trees.

“Can I come up?”

“If you’ve got a head for heights,” Wendell dared him.

The ladder creaked as he climbed, but he made the platform without missing a step. Wendell was impressed.

“Not bad for a new boy,” he said. “We had two kids here couldn’t even get halfway up.”

“Where’d they go?”

“Back home, I s’pose. Kids come and go, you know?”

Harvey peered out through the branches, upon which every bud was bursting.

“You can’t see much, can you?” he said. “I mean, there’s no sign of the town at all.”

“Who cares?” said Wendell. “It’s just gray out there anyway.”

“And it’s sunny here,” Harvey said, staring down at the wall of misty stones that divided the grounds of the House from the outside world. “How’s that possible?”

Wendell’s answer was the same again: “Who cares?” he said. “I know I don’t. Now, are we going to start building, or what?”

They spent the next two hours working on the tree house, descending a dozen times to dig through the timbers heaped beside the orchard, looking for boards to finish their repairs. By noon they’d not only found enough wood to fix the roof, but they had each found a friend. Harvey liked Wendell’s bad jokes, and that who cares? which found its way into every other sentence. And Wendell seemed just as happy to have Harvey’s company.

“You’re the first kid who’s been real fun,” he said.

“What about Lulu?”

“What about her?”

“Isn’t she any fun?”

“She was okay when I first arrived,” Wendell admitted. “I mean, she’s been here months, so she kinda showed me the place. But she’s gotten weird the last few days. I see her sometimes wanderin’ around like she’s sleepwalkin’, with a blank expression on her face.”

“She’s probably going crazy,” Harvey said. “Her brain’s turning to mush.”

“Do you know about that stuff?” Wendell wanted to know, his face lighting up with ghoulish delight.

“Sure I do” Harvey lied. “My dad’s a surgeon.”

Wendell was most impressed by this, and for the next few minutes listened in gaping envy as Harvey told him about all the operations he’d seen: skulls sawn open and legs sawn off; feet sewn on where hands used to be, and a man with a boil on his behind that grew into a talking head.

“You swear?” said Wendell.

“I swear,” said Harvey.

“That’s so cool.”

All this talk brought on a fierce hunger, and at Wendells suggestion they climbed down the ladder and wandered into the House to eat.

“What do you want to do this afternoon?” he asked Harvey as they sat down at the table. “It’s going to be real hot. It always is.”

“Is there anywhere we can swim?”

Wendell frowned. “Well, yes…” he said doubtfully. “There’s a lake around the other side of the House, but you won’t much like it.

“Why not?”

“The water’s so deep you can’t even see the bottom.”

“Are there any fish?”

“Oh sure.”

“Maybe we could catch some. Mrs. Griffin could cook’em for us.”

At this, Mrs. Griffin, who was at the stove piling up a plate with onion rings, gave a little shout, and dropped the plate. She turned to Harvey, her face ashen.

“You don’t want to do that,” she said.

“Why not?” Harvey replied. “I thought I could do whatever I wanted.”

“Well, yes, of course you can,” she told him. “But I wouldn’t want you to get sick. The fish are…poisonous, you see.”

“Oh,” said Harvey, “well, maybe we won’t eat’em after all.”

“Look at this mess,” Mrs. Griffin said, fussing to cover her confusion. “I need a new apron.”

She hurried away to fetch one, leaving Harvey and Wendell to exchange puzzled looks.

“Now I really have to see those fish,” Harvey said.

As he spoke, the ever inquisitive Clue-Cat jumped up onto the counter beside the stove, and before either of the boys could move to stop him he had his paws up on the lip of one of the pans.