The Deserter by Jane Langton Page B

possessions, including his mysteriously clean sack coat, were carefully ticketed and sent away to a collecting point in the city of Washington, along with thousands of other personal possessions of the men who had died at Gettysburg.
    Sergeant Willow never saw the coat again.

PART IX
    THE NUTTINESS OF
EBENEZER

THE HAIR
PRESUMPTIVE
    I t was even worse than they had feared.
    They had not written to Howie “Ebenezer” Flint to tell him they were coming. They had not even phoned, in case he put them off.
    Therefore when he opened his front door a crack and saw them standing on his sagging front porch, his jaw dropped and his face flushed, deepening from pink to purple.
    Howie had never met Homer and he had not seen Mary since they were children. And yet he seemed to guess at once that they were a threat. “You can’t come in,” he whispered. “I am the hair presumptive.”
    â€œYou’re what?” Mary put out her hand. “Oh, come on, Howie, we’re kinfolk. Remember when you came to Concord with your family? When we were children? I’m Gwen’s sister Mary and this is my husband, Homer. We just want to talk to you.”
    Howie’s eyes swiveled back and forth between the two tall people standing on the drooping floorboards of his front porch. His eyes were small and glittering behind little old-fashioned glasses. They failed to see Mary’s friendly hand.
    It was obvious that the idiotic boy Gwen had known as a child had fulfilled his early promise. “Actually,” said Howie, keeping a firm grip on the door, “I am quite ill. Last week I was at the point of death.” He coughed.
    â€œOh, look, Howie”—Mary adopted her best wheedling tone—“we’ve come all this way. You can’t refuse to see your own third cousin twice removed.”
    Reluctantly Howie at last opened the door just wide enough for them to squeeze through.
    Only when they were inside did the full glory of his whiskers burst upon their gaze. Howie’s whiskers were full and dark, thick and hateful, a bushy growth eighteen inches long. Homer decided gleefully that they were a sort of statement— I may be a total flop at everything else, but at least my chin is a genius .
    â€œThank you, Howie,” said Mary, trying not to exclaim at the extravagant growth of his beard nor stare around at the rubbish in the hall. The interior of Howie’s house was a classic case of the newspaper headline, OLD COUPLE FOUND DEAD AMONG STACKS OF OLD NEWSPAPERS.
    â€œMy name’s not Howie,” growled Howie, “it’s Ebenezer.”
    â€œBut didn’t it used to be—”
    â€œLegally changed in a court of law. I have chosen to be known by the name of my great-great-grandfather.”
    â€œYour great-great-grandfather was called Ebenezer?”
    The little eyes flashed behind the tiny specs. “Right. And he was not a traitor like your great-great-grandfather.”
    The shaft went home, and Mary winced. But perhaps this fool had found out something she didn’t know. Quickly she said, “You mean Seth Morgan was a traitor? What kind of traitor?”
    The little eyes shifted. “I don’t know exactly. I just know it was something shameful.”
    Something shameful . It was the old family story. Mary was disappointed. The silly man knew no more about Seth Morgan than she did. “Listen here, Howie,” she began boldly. “Oh, sorry, I mean Ebenezer. We’d like to see the things you”—she stopped just in time to avoid the word swiped —“the things you borrowed from my sister’s house last month.”
    Ebenezer twiddled his fingers in his beard and said craftily, “I didn’t borrow them. Actually, I took what is jurisdicially mine.”
    â€œYours! But you removed them from her house without permission.”
    â€œSince we have the same great-great- great -grandfather,” said Howie,