The Sorcerer's House
the boy were to come to my door and request its return? What if his mother or father came?
    I returned home, as I have indicated, disappointed and hungry, but still in possession. I was toying with it when I observed that all three rings bore glyphs suggestive of fish. I lined them up and directed the arrow toward them, then went a-fishing.
    Here, George, I must describe my grounds, which I have scarcely mentioned to this point. My house has its back to the river. Behind the house is a considerable lawn. (I know, for I have mowed it.) Behind that is a patch of wooded wild ground that slopes fifty feet or more to the water. It is from this wooded patch that I obtain fuel for my fire.
    It will not surprise you to learn that I possess no fishing gear; I was forced to improvise. String became my line, a safety pin my hook, and so forth. Bait offered no difficulty, since this soil shelters a plethora of worms. I fished, as I said; but I caught nothing. My lucky charm (as I had hopefully thought of it) had brought not a single bite.
    Day ended. I gathered wood, returned to this house, built up a small and somewhat smoky fire, lit the boy's candle, and immersed myself in Thucydides.
    My reading had just reached the bit about the Spartan army besieging Oenoe when it was interrupted by a loud and persistent pounding at the door. I opened it, expecting the boy's parents, or--just possibly--the boy himself.
    In that I was wholly wrong. The middle-aged man who had knocked smiled broadly, introduced himself, and shook my hand when I responded.
    "I was getting worried about you," he said. "At first I thought you'dgone to bed, because the house is so dark. Then I saw your fire through the window, and for a minute I thought the house might be on fire. Power failure?"
    "No power yet, I'm afraid. The company's supposed to hook it up, but they haven't done it. I'm camping in the house for the present. No power and hardly any furniture." (That last was a lie, George. It slipped out of itself, and I sincerely regret it. The truth was, and is, that I have no furniture at all.)
    "I see! I see! Say, neighbor, do you know about oil lamps?"
    No doubt I smiled. "Only in old books, I'm afraid. Have you got one?"
    "Sure do, and I'll lend it to you. Gives a hell of a lot more light than that candle. Just give me a minute."
    He hurried off to his truck, which was parked in my driveway, and returned a few seconds later with a tall lamp and a bottle of what proved to be lamp oil. Inside, he showed me how to fill the reservoir and manage the wick. "This right here will give you as much light as a good reading light, and it'll burn just about any kind of vegetable oil. Believe that? I'll burn olive oil. Burn lard, too, or kerosene."
    He lit it from my candle and blew the candle out. As he had promised, its clear, bright light was amazing.
    "Now what I came about was fish. I been fishing up to Brompton Lake and caught a lot, so I've been giving some to the neighbors. Like a couple? They'll be good eating."
    "I certainly would. And thank you."
    "How 'bout three? Give you three easy as two."
    I admired his fish, listened with proper appreciation to a (thankfully) brief synopsis of his adventures that day, graciously accepted three fish of medium size, thanked him, and promised faithfully to return his lamp as soon as my electricity was on.
    His fish--when I had leisure to examine them--proved to be a catfish, and two others that may perhaps have been bass. My lengthy sojourn at the Riverman had left me with a small frying pan, salt, and pepper. I filleted one of the bass in record time and cooked it over the fire.
    I was desperately hungry by then, George. I know my plight will not move you, but I was. I do not know when I have eaten anything better than that fish.
    The second bass was filleted, cooked, and eaten only slightly more slowly.
    Had the catfish retained a spark of life, I think I might have carried it down to the river and released it. It did not, and

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