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“Oh my dear–my dear!” said my Mother.

The Old Doctor looked a little funny.

“Oh I admit it’s worth something,” he said, “to have you call me your ‘dear.’–But I’m mad I tell you clear through. And when you’ve got as much ‘through‘ to you as I have, that’s some mad!–W-hew!” he said. “When I think of our village,–our precious, clean, decent, simple little All-American village–turned into a cheap–racketty–crowd-you-off-the-sidewalk Saturday Night Hell Hole…?”

“Oh–Oh–OH!” cried my Mother.

“Quick! Get him some raspberry shrub,” cried my Father.

“Maybe he’d like to play the Children’s new Game!” cried my Mother.

“It isn’t a Game,” I explained. “It’s a Book!”

My Mother ran to get the Raspberry Shrub. She brought a whole pitcher. It tinkled with ice. It sounded nice. When the Old Doctor had drunken it he seemed cooled quite a little. He put the glass down on the table. He saw the Book. He looked surprised.

“Lanos–Bryant? Accounts?” he read. He looked at the date. He looked at my Father. “What you trying to do, Man?” he said. “Reconstruct a financial picture of our village as it was a generation ago? Or trace your son Carol’s very palpable distaste for a brush, back to his grandfather’s somewhat avid devotion to pork chops?” He picked up the book. He opened the first pages. He read the names written at the tops of the pages. Some of the names were pretty faded.–“Alden, Hoppin, Weymoth, Dun Vorlees,” he read. He put on his glasses. He scrunched his eyes. He grunted his throat. “W-hew!” he said. “A hundred pounds of beans in one month?–Is it any wonder that young Alden ran away to sea–and sunk clear to the bottom in his first shipwreck?–‘Roast Beef’?–‘Roast Beef’?–‘Malt and Hops’?–‘Malt and Hops’?–‘Roast Beef’?–‘Malt and Hops’?–Is that where Old Man Weymoth got his rheumatism?–And Young Weymoth–his blood pressure?–Dun Vorlees?–Dun Vorlees?–What? No meat at all from November to February?–No fruit?–Only three pounds of sugar?–Great Gastronomics! Back of all that arrogance,–that insulting aloofness,–was real Hunger gnawing at the Dun Vorlees vitals?–Was that the reason why–?–Merciful Heavens!” cried the Old Doctor. “This book is worth twenty dollars to me–this very minute in my Practice! The light it sheds on the Village Stomach,–the Village Nerves,–the–“

“Please, Sir,” I said. “The Book is Carol’s. Mr. Lanos Bryant gave it to him.–And we’re planning to get a great deal more than twenty dollars for it when we sell it!”

“Eh?” said the Old Doctor. “What?”

He jerked round in his chair and glared at Carol.

“This I’ll have you understand, my Young Man,” he said, “is in the cause of Science!”

Carol looked pretty nervous. He began to smooth his hair as well as he could without bristles. It didn’t smooth much.

“Oh please, Sir,” I explained, “people who write books never have smooth hair!”

“Who’s talking about writing books?” roared the Old Doctor.

“Please, Sir, we’re trying to talk about it,” I said. My voice sounded pretty little. “It’s the back part of the book that’s the important part,” I explained. “It’s the back part of the book that we’re writing!”

“Eh?” said the Old Doctor.

He slammed the book together. He stood up and began to look for his hat.

There didn’t seem a moment to lose if we we’re going to get him into our book. I ran and caught him by the hand. Even if his face was busy his hands always had time to be friends with Carol and me.

“Oh please–please–please,” I besought him. “If you were a Beautiful Smell instead of a Beautiful Doctor,–what Beautiful Smell in the whole wide world would you choose to be?”

“What?” said the old Doctor. “What? W-h-a-t?” he kept saying over and over. He looked at my Father. He looked at my Mother. My Mother told him about our Book. He made a loud Guffaw. “Guffaw” I think is the noise he made. Carol is sure that it is! He looked at Carol. He looked at me. He began to Guffaw all over again.