CHAPTER EIGHTNobody Can Believe It
At his first view of the little yellow house half hidden by its trees, Gamadge stopped with a hand on Clara’s arm. He stood absorbing the scene and tapping his stick gently against his leg; the monotone of the waterfall was in his ears, a chirping of birds, a faint rustle of leaves. Wood-smells and field-smells came to him on a cool breeze. The bend in the road cut off all sight of other human habitations.
“Do you like it?” asked Clara.
“Who wouldn’t like it?”
They went on down to the beginning of the path. A state trooper got up from the porch settee and advanced upon them.
“Premises closed,” he said. “Public not allowed.”
“We’re not public,” said Gamadge. “We live here.”
The trooper looked at him.
“And we have property here,” continued Gamadge.
