Let’s ask Harry where he got the box!”
Duff wished for a moment he hadn’t told Eleanor anything. “Ye gods!” he answered.
“Not really! I just — have to know what the metal was, now that I’ve seen the gadget.
Chances are a million to one my idea is totally nuts. But if it did happen to be that millionth chance, then asking Harry anything would be a terrible blunder!”
“You’re right about that,” she said contritely. Then, hearing a car in the drive, she murmured, “There Harry is now. Go clean up, and I’ll finish supper. At the least, get that repulsive apron off. You look like a cross between Mother Hubbard and the Scarecrow in the Oz books!”
His smile was sheepish. “Okay.”
Before he left the kitchen she asked hastily and in a low tone, “Can you tell, from such a tiny sample?”
“I’m no microchemist. But I should be able to, yes.”
“I hope you’re crazy,” she said earnestly.
Duff’s room was not much different from Harry’s save that it was less neat and contained more books. In order to save time, he had availed himself of an old-fashioned pitcher and wash bowl which he’d found in the attic. He began shaving while Harry took his daily shower. Charles Yates came whizzing home, bike siren loud, his voice shrill as he shouted through his mother’s window, “I got the old paper route!”