"Naughty, naughty, naughty," Henry said. He looked as though he had been drinking himself all day long. Michael took an immediate liking to him and smiled up at him. Henry winked at him. Obviously young Norman Brewster's zeal was a subject of amusement in the police department of Green Hollow.

"And you can put down in the ledger one more item," Brewster said gravely, "offering a bribe to arresting officers."

Fred, who had been lounging silently against the wall, sighed audibly.

"One drink?" Michael said, as though surprised. "You guys must come cheap."

"You keep your mouth shut, mister," Brewster said loudly. He grabbed Michael's arm. "Come on in here." He led Michael into a back room with lockers in it. Off to one side there was a single cell. The cell was shining clean and looked comfortable.

The front door to the station opened and a burly, outdoor-looking man, dressed in rough woodsman's clothes, came in. "Hi, Henry," he said to the policeman behind the high desk. "Anything new on my truck yet?"

"Sorry, Mr. Ellsworth," Henry said respectfully. "We got fliers all over the state. Nothing yet."

"Kiss one truck good-bye," Ellsworth said. "Damn it, it's the first time in fifty years anything of mine's been stolen. We're getting the wrong element up here, Henry."

Michael, who was sitting at a desk with Brewster and Fred, while they were laboriously filling out forms, recognized the voice, but didn't say anything and waited for Ellsworth to recognize him.

Ellsworth looked curiously through the open door to the back room. He could see only the back of Michael's head.

"Some smart alec New York fella," Henry said. "Brewster's throwing the book at him. Mostly it'll come down to speeding, I reckon, when Brewster cools off."

Then Michael turned around. Ellsworth looked surprised. Then he laughed. "Hello, criminal," he said.

Michael stood up. "Hi, Herb." The two men shook hands and Ellsworth clapped Michael on the shoulder.

The two policemen looked up at the two men, abashed. "Hello, Mr. Ellsworth," Fred said, standing. "You know this fella?"

"Only for how long, Mike?" Ellsworth said.

"Fourteen years."

"That long, is it? Only for fourteen years," Ellsworth said to the policemen. "He saved my life, once."

"Don't exaggerate, Herb," Michael said.

"Saved my life," Ellsworth said emphatically.

"I thought you said you didn't know anybody in Green Hollow," Brewster said peevishly.

"I don't like to boast," Michael said.

"Lord, Mike," Ellsworth said, grinning, "you haven't changed, have you?"

"A bit," Michael said. "This time I got caught."

"You sure did, mister," Brewster said.

"Come on, boys," said Ellsworth, "you're not going to make trouble for an old friend of mine, are you?"

"He was going eighty-five, Mr. Ellsworth . . ." Brewster whined. "Come on, Norman," Fred said wearily. "Act your age."

"I suppose ..." Brewster said reluctantly to Ellsworth, "if you vouch for his character."

"It used to be mostly bad," Ellsworth said, "but he must have grown out of it by now. You going to be a good boy now, Mike?"

"I promise," Michael said to the policemen. "I'm sorry if I gave you any trouble."

"Okay," Brewster grumbled. "Just get your registration up here quick."

"Will do," Michael said. "Now will all you three gentlemen join me in a drink to celebrate my arrival in town?"

The two policemen looked at each other questioningly. "Well-" Fred said. "We're knocking off in a couple of minutes, anyway. Why not? The saloon's around the comer. It'll take just a little while to finish up our paper work."

"Okay," Brewster said, but couldn't resist one last parting shot at Michael. "Still-you're lucky Mr. Ellsworth happened in, I tell you . . ."

"This is my lucky day, gentlemen," Michael said.

"Here're the keys to your car, Mr. Storrs." Fred handed him the bunch of keys.

"Thanks," Michael said and went out with Ellsworth, waving airily at the drunken old cop high up behind his desk.

Brewster stared at the retreating backs glumly. "You think he really saved Mr. Ellsworth's life?" he asked.

"Herb Ellsworth don't make jokes," Fred said.

"You know," Brewster said reflectively, "I'm beginning to feel that I know that fella from somewhere."

"You can ask him over the drinks," Fred said and sat down and squinted at the report lying on the table.

Outside, Michael said, "Wait a minute, Herb. I want to lock my car. I have stuff all over the back." He locked the doors of the car as Ellsworth looked admiringly at the Porsche.

"You must be doing pretty good for yourself these days," Ellsworth said.

"It's not a bad little car," Michael said, smiling at the modest description of a machine that had cost him over twenty-five thousand dollars. "Pretty good." Then, more soberly, he added, "In a manner of speaking."

They walked around the corner toward the saloon. "How about you?" Michael asked. "How are you doing? You must be a big shot around here-the way they treated you."

"I can't complain. The construction business is swinging along. People from all over New York and New England are building houses here, even from Canada. You have some hills these days and a little snow and you're not too far from one or two big cities and you're a major industry."

They walked in silence for a little while. "I often wondered what happened to you," Ellsworth said.

"A couple of things."

"You married?"

"Sort of. Separated for the time being."

Ellsworth grunted, as though that was a sufficient expression of his sentiments about modem marriage and modem divorce. "You still ski?"

"A bit."

"Crazy as ever?"

"I try not to be."

"Why didn't you come back here from time to time?"

"I don't know," Michael said. "I skied out West-in Europe. Maybe I felt it never could be as good as it was here in the old days and I didn't want to spoil what I remembered. Maybe there were a couple of people I didn't want to run into again . . ."

"Mrs. Harris is still around," Ellsworth said. "Only she's not Mrs. Harris anymore." He looked at Michael obliquely.

"Oh," Michael said, "you knew about her."

"It's a small town, Mike," Ellsworth said. "The word finally gets out. She bought a house a few years ago. Still likes them young."

"That lets me off the hook."

"I wouldn't lay any odds."

"How does she look these days?"

"Pretty good, considering. She keeps in shape, skiing and all."

"Any permanent connection?"

"While the snow lasts. I don't know about after." Ellsworth looked at him quizzically. "You want to know her telephone number?" "Thanks, no. I play in the veterans' tournaments now."

Ellsworth chuckled.

"You sure raised hell in this town," he said.

"I was twenty-one years old. I gave myself six months before settling down to being a responsible citizen, working in an office, getting ahead . . ."

"You get ahead?"

"I guess you might say that."

"How long you plan to stay up here?"

Michael shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe forever."

Ellsworth stopped walking, surprised. "What about your job?"

"I don't have a job."

"You get canned?"

"Quit. It was that or out the window." ^ Ellsworth started walking again. "Well, that's one good thing about Green Hollow. Ain't a window high enough in town so a man could do more than sprain an ankle jumping. You got enough money to last you a long while?"

"A while," Michael said. "I thought maybe I could teach skiing this season."

"You won't get rich doing that. What did you get when you did it back then?"

"I guess I averaged about sixty a week."

"You won't average much more now," Ellsworth said. "In real money. What with inflation. You sure you know what you're doing, Mike?"

"Pretty sure," Michael said, as they went into the bar. Pretty sure was about all he could honestly say about anything he thought or felt. .

They ordered whiskeys and lifted their glasses to each other. "Herb," Michael said, "it sure is good to see you." He had roomed for a few weeks in the Ellsworth house and even after he left Mrs. Ellsworth had mothered him and had nursed him through a bout with pneumonia that had felled him late in the season and kept him in town for three weeks after the lifts had closed. Mrs. Ellsworth had fed him devotedly and their daughter, Norma, who was then seventeen years old, had silently adored him and he had had some memorable days on the mountain with Ellsworth who, despite his bulk, was a swift and graceful skier. It was the one time in Michael's life that he had felt part of a real family. "Now," Michael said, "what about you? Aside from being prosperous-which proves to me that capitalism has many things to be said for it-what about the family?"

"The wife's fine. And Norma's made me a grandfather. Twice. Two boys."

"Little Norma." Michael shook his head. "Who'd she marry?"

"The same one she was going around with when you stepped in." Ellsworth looked at Michael soberly, waiting for a reaction.

"Old David Stone-Face. The town hero," Michael said.

"Dave Cully. He waited you out. He runs the ski school now. He's a good husband and father."

"Is that enough for Norma?"

"You ask her yourself tonight. She's invited for dinner. And you're invited."

"Thanks."

"Dave can't come," Ellsworth said. "He has some kind of meeting."

Michael hesitated before he spoke again. "You think Norma would want to see me?" He had had a wild, surprising scene with Norma, during which she had wept and told him she loved him and that he was the only man she could ever love. He had tried to be as gentle and friendly as possible with the girl, but after that he had made a point of never finding himself alone with her.

"I haven't discussed the subject with Norma," Ellsworth said. "Yet."

"Listen, Herb," Michael said earnestly. "Maybe you, and for all I know, maybe the whole town thinks I had an affair with your daughter. I didn't. I liked her, I never had. a brother or a sister and she filled a place in my emotional life that was good for me-I rooted for her when she was racing . . ." He shook his head. "Ah ... all right, she had a kind of schoolgirl crush on me."

"She wasn't any schoolgirl," Ellsworth said. "She was seventeen and you were twenty-one. Maybe I blamed you after you left. If I did, it's finished now."

"I was busy in other bedrooms," Michael said. "Among others I was having a thing with a married woman . . ."

"Mrs. Harris," Ellsworth said flatly.

"We thought we kept it a secret and almost the only other girl in town I was ever seen with more than a couple of times was Norma, so naturally-you believe me, don't you, Herb?"

"All I know is that when you pulled out without saying good-bye, she was a very sad girl," Ellsworth said. He was accusing Michael now, but sorrowfully, a father who had an inconsolable child to console, confronting a grown man who, innocently or not, had caused his daughter pain. "It was a long time, Mike, before she pulled out." "I don't like good-bye scenes now and I didn't then. I'm sorry. What do you think, Herb, do you want me to leave town tonight? Say the word."

Ellsworth played with his glass, brooding, for a moment. "Come to dinner," he said finally.

"You make me feel like a bastard."