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carried it more for whacking anything or poking anyone who drew his ire. Eli had been on the receiving end of that more times than he could count. As they continued on down the street, Eli felt like he was in a circus parade. He was an unwilling clown that everyone came to gawk at. All that was missing were the peanut vendors and the elephants. Jim had his eyes set on one thing, the Harris’s house on the far end of town, and nothing else seemed to distract him. It seemed like hours before they finally reached the white picket fence leading to it. It was the only truly white picket fence in town. Whitman had ordered the wood in from St. John’s. There were a few mimic fences, people trying to be like them, but they had rough, hand-cut boards that were whitewashed, but always looking worn and in need of repair. Some things just weren’t right without the original material. As Jim opened the little wooden gate and started up the rock path to the wide porch, the smell of fried chicken engulfed them. Jim grinned at Eli. “Almost makes it worth it, doesn’t it?” Eli didn’t think so, but he didn’t say it. They approached the door, and Jim rapped heartily with his cane. It was Whitman who opened the door. “Eli, Jim, good to see you. Come in. Come in.” Whitman glanced at the clock on the mantle and smiled as he led them to some chairs. “You’re even slightly early.” Jim tapped his cane on the floor. “Eli didn’t want us to be late. He said he was already in enough trouble around town.” 38