The wind whooshed out of my sails.
"You," I gulped, "did?"
"Mmm-hmm. Heard a feller say as how there'd been funny goin's-on down thisaway. Thought to myself, 'Well, now, Hank, 'pears like fust thing you know, ol' Jim'll be needin' a mite o' help, so you better hump along an' give him a lift. So I come, and—" He beamed. "Here I am!"
"Yes," I said weakly. "Here you are."
Dammit, I don't know why I should have been surprised. Especially after having lived under the same roof as this gawky genius for three solid months. But as ever, it utterly confounded me to realize that Hank's thought processes were so simple, so altogether down-to-earth and natural, that he invariably did the right thing at the right time.
I said, "And a mighty good thing you came, too. But your turnips, Hank? How—"
He shook his head dolefully. Turnip growing was Hank's one and only obsession.
"Turnips," he grimaced, "is hell. It don't matter how you plant 'em, or where, or when, or what you do—they don't never act like you'd expect 'em to. I plant 'em wide, I plant 'em close; I plant 'em in cuts an' slips an' seeds; I plant 'em yeller, white an' mottled. I water 'em an' potash 'em an' treat 'em like babies—an' I still can't make 'em behave!"
He wedged a bulldog-tipped toe into the rug and looked at me from under his bushy brows.
"Helen?" he asked. "How's Helen?"