She slept . . .

The morning was bright and green, and there at her door, bumping softly on the screen, were the two girls. “Got any more to give us, Mrs. Bentley? More of the little girl’s things?”

She led them down the hall to the library.

“Take this.” She gave Jane the dress in which she had played the mandarin’s daughter at fifteen. “And this, and this.” A kaleidoscope, a magnifying glass. “Pick anything you want,” said Mrs. Bentley. “Books, skates, dolls, everything-they’re yours.”

“Ours?”

“Only yours. And will you help me with a little work in the next hour? I’m building a big fire in my back yard. I’m; emptying the trunks, throwing out this trash for the trash-man. It doesn’t belong to me. Nothing ever belongs to anybody.”

“We’ll help,” they said.

Mrs. Bentley led the procession to the back yard, arms full, a box of matches in her hand.

So the rest of the summer you could see the two little girls and Tom like wrens on a wire, on Mrs. Bentley’s front porch, waiting. And when the silvery chimes of the icicle man were heard, the front door opened, Mrs. Bentley floated out with her hand deep down the gullet of her silvermouthed purse, and for half an hour you could see them there on the porch, the children and the old lady putting coldness into warmness, eating chocolate icicles, laughing. At last they were good friends.

“How old are you, Mrs. Bentley?”

“Seventy-two.”

“How old were you fifty years ago?”

“Seventy-two.”

“You weren’t ever young, were you, and never wore ribbons or dresses like these?”

“No.”

“Have you got a first name?”

“My name is Mrs. Bentley.”

“And you’ve always lived in this one house?”

“Always.”

“And never were pretty?”

“Never.”

“Never in a million trillion years?” The two girls would bend toward the old lady, and wait in the pressed silence of four o’clock on a summer afternoon.

“Never,” said Mrs. Bentley, “in a million trillion years.”

“You got the nickel tablet ready, Doug?”

“Sure.” Doug licked his pencil good.

“What you got in there so far?”

“All the ceremonies.”

“July Fourth and all that, dandelion-wine making and junk like bringing out the porch swing, huh?”

“Says here, I ate the first Eskimo Pie of the summer season Tune first, 1928.”

“That wasn’t summer, that was still spring.”

“It was a ‘first’ anyway, so I put it down. Bought those new tennis shoes June twenty-fifth. Went barefoot in the grass June twenty-sixth Busy, busy, busy, heck! Well, what you got to report this time, Tom? A new first, a fancy ceremony of some sort to do with vacation like creek-crab catching or water-strider-spider grabbing?”

“Nobody ever grabbed a water-strider-spider in his life. You ever know anybody grabbed a water-strider-spider? Go ahead, think!”

“I’m thinking.”

“Well?”

“You’re right. Nobody ever did. Nobody ever will, I guess. They’re just too fast.”

“It’s not that they’re fast. They just don’t exist,” said Tom. He thought about it and nodded. “That’s right, they just never did exist at all. Well, what I got to report is this.”

He leaned over and whispered in his brother’s ear. Douglas wrote it.

They both looked at it.

“I’ll be darned!” said Douglas. “I never thought of that. That’s brilliant! It’s true. Old people never were children!” “And it’s kind of sad,” said Tom, sitting still. “There’s nothing we can do to help them.”

Seems like the town is full of machines . . . ’ said Douglas, running. “Mr. Auffmann and his Happiness Machine, Miss Fern and Miss Roberta and their Green Machine. Now, Charlie, what you handing me?”

“A Time Machine!” panted Charlie Woodman, pacing him. “Mother’s, scout’s, Injun’s honor!”

“Travels in the past and future?” John Huff asked, easily circling them.

“Only in the past, but you can’t have everything. Here we are.”

Charlie Woodman pulled up at a hedge.

Douglas peered in at the old house. “Heck, that’s Colonel Freeleigh’s place. Can’t be no Time Machine in there. He’s no inventor, and if he was, we’d known about an important thing like a Time Machine years ago.”

Charlie and John tiptoed up the front-porch steps. Douglas snorted and shook his head, staying at the bottom of: the steps.

“Okay, Douglas,” said Charlie. “Be a knucklehead. Sure, Colonel Freeleigh didn’t invent this Time Machine. But he’s got a proprietary interest in it, and it’s been here all the time. We were too darned dumb to notice! So long, Douglas Spaulding, to you!”

Charlie took John’s elbow as though he was escorting a lady, opened the front-porch screen and went in. The screen door did not slam.

Douglas had caught the screen and was following silently.

Charlie walked across the enclosed porch, knocked, and opened the inside door. They all peered down a long dark hall toward a room that was lit like an undersea grotto, soft green, dim, and watery.

“Colonel Freeleigh?”

Silence.

“He don’t hear so good,” whispered Charlie. “But he told me to just come on in and yell. Colonel!”

The only answer was the dust sifting down and around the spiral stairwell from above. Then there was a faint stir in that undersea chamber at the far end of the hall.

They moved carefully along and peered into room which contained but two pieces of furniture-an old man and a chair. They resembled each other, both so thin you could see just how they had been put together, ball and socket, sinew and joint. The rest of the room was raw floor boards, naked walls and ceiling, and vast quantities of silent air.

“He looks dead,” whispered Douglas.

“No, he’s just thinking up new places to travel to,” said Charlie, very proud and quiet. “Colonel?”

One of the pieces of brown furniture moved and it was the colonel, blinking around, focusing, and smiling a wild and toothless smile. “Charlie!”

“Colonel, Doug and John here came to—”

“Welcome, boys; sit down, sit down!”

The boys sat, uneasily, on the floor.

“But where’s the—” said Douglas. Charlie jabbed his ribs quickly.

“Where’s the what?” asked Colonel Freeleigh.

“Where’s the point in us talking, he means.” Charlie grimaced at Douglas, then smiled at the old man. “We got nothing to say. Colonel, you say something.”

“Beware, Charlie, old men only lie in wait for people to’ ask them to talk. Then they rattle on like a rusty elevator wheezing up a shaft.”

“Ching Ling Soo,” suggested Charlie casually.

“Eh?” said the colonel.

“Boston,” Charlie prompted, “1910.”

“Boston, 1910 . . .” The colonel frowned. “Why, Ching Ling Soo, of course!” “Yes, sir, Colonel.”

“Let me see, now . . .” The colonel’s voice murmured, it drifted away on serene lake waters. “Let me see . . .”

The boys waited.

Colonel Freeleigh closed his eyes.

“October first, 1910, a calm cool fine autumn night, the Boston Variety Theatre, yes, there it is. Full house, all waiting. Orchestra, fanfare, curtain! Ching Ling Soo, the great Oriental Magician! There he is, on stage! And there I am, front row center! ‘The Bullet Trick!’ he cries. ‘Volunteers!’ The man next to me goes up. ‘Examine the rifle!’ says Ching. ‘Mark the bullet!’ says he. ‘Now fire this marked bullet from this rifle, using my face for a target, and,’ says Ching, ‘at the far end of the stage I will catch the bullet in my teeth!’”

Colonel Freeleigh took a deep breath and paused.

Douglas was staring at him, half puzzled, half in awe. John Huff and Charlie were completely lost. Now the old man went on, his head and body frozen, only his lips moving.

“‘Ready, aim, fire!’ cries Ching Ling Soo. Bang! The rifle cracks. Bang! Ching Ling Soo shrieks, he staggers, he falls, his face all red. Pandemonium. Audience on its feet. Something wrong with the rifle. ‘Dead,’ someone says. And they’re right. Dead. Horrible, horrible . . . I’ll always remember . . . his face a mask of red, the curtain coming down fast and the women weeping . . .1910 . . . Boston . . . Variety Theatre . . . poor man . . .