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Updated: May 22, 2025
Bob always called me Arthur and made me call him Robert, though his nickname was "Shadder." When Bob said to come on to me, Mitch says, "Wait a minute, Skeet, I've somethin' to tell you." So I said to Bob, "Wait a minute, Robert," and Bob said, "You're comin' now or not at all." That made me mad, so I stood there. Bob went on and Mitch came up. "Let him go," said Mitch. "You don't care, do you?"
"I don't know, Mitch," Nelsen answered in the same tone as before. "Your thickets do have a pretty good defense." But in his heart he suspected that fierce human persistence couldn't be stopped as long as there were humans left. Mitch and his star folk couldn't withdraw from the mainstream of competition inherent in life that was spreading again across the solar system.
And I ran ran all the way breathless to tell Mitch that we had struck it at last. When I got to his house, no one was there but a woman doin' the washin'. She didn't know where any of the family was. That she saw Mitch go away with his fishin' pole. So I ran back and told pa, and he says, "Never mind let it go it's just as well." While I was gone, the man and pa seemed to have come to terms.
Did the color photographs of Mars, among all the others that the Bunch had thumbtacked to the shop walls, still appeal as strongly to Mitch? Did he still want to go out to that world of queer, swirled markings, like the fluid flow in the dregs of a paper coffee cup? Mitch would more so than ever. He had plant life in his soul, maybe from wandering in the swamps near his home in Mississippi.
Something woke me up. I don't know what. I didn't know where I was at first. There wasn't a sound except a dog barkin' way off. Mitch was sound asleep. Pretty soon I thought I heard somethin' way down the river. I kept lookin', past the bridge where the red lanterns hung, way down into the darkness of the river, between the woods.
So come along, and if we can't put you up here, we'll get the Widow Douglas to take you in. And maybe if I can get you to give up this treasure huntin', which ain't much after all, you'll want to join the gang I'm formin' that is if I really see that you and Skeet are the right kind. I sign myself, "Your Friend, "Tom Sawyer." "There," said Mitch "how's that?
I thought I saw a tear in Zueline's eyes, but I'm not sure. So we went out to the cemetery and they buried Mitch not far from Little Billie. So it was all over. We began to separate and get into carriages or walk. And pretty soon I was home. There was nothing there. My ma went in and began to do something. Myrtle went out to the swing.
He began to make soft, musing chords, tried a fragment of Old Man River, shifted briefly to a spiritual, and wound up with some eerie, impromptu fragments, partly like the drums and jingling brass of old Africa, partly like a joyful battle, partly like a lonesome lament, and then, mysteriously like absolute silence. Storey stopped, abashed. He grinned. "Reaching for Out There, Mitch?"
By and by Mitch said: "Do you remember when we were here and lay on top of that shed and I told you about losin' Zueline, and that there was somethin' else in my mind?" "Yes," says I. "Well," says Mitch, "you know what it was now, don't you?" "I think so," says I. "Of course it was that Rainey murder and findin' that pistol. And I'd like to ask you, Skeet, if you think I dreamed that."
Getting you back here, without Huth spotting the old heli I picked up once at a deserted settlers' camp was real tough going. I had to land, hide it and wait, four or five times. And you were both plenty sick. But there are a few medical gimmicks I learned from the thickets better than those at the Station." "You've done all right for yourself here, haven't you, Mitch?"
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