North of Boston
THEY aint much happened sence the last riting. Long the middle of December I rigged my schedule to swing thru Hamilton, New York, where the boy is to Colgate. Shacked up at the Inn and dropped the barrel of bolts at the Beta house for him.
Come morning I walked around the town. Cold and clear. You could feel the stir and hurry and antisipayshun of a college busting up for the Christmas holidays. About ten the boiler slides to a stop beside the Inn. I set in frunt beside the sprout. Springs are Eat for the rear seat is packed with three of his bretheren and their belongings.
Ten miles and I glance back. The three are asleep, relaxed like so many kittens. "Big party last nite?" I ast the boy. "Party—too tired to party last nite. Just finishing a bunch of exams. Really rugged."
The miles and the upper New York towns drop behind on the concrete. One by one we let the boys oft. When we are alone the kid says "You mind?" I nod. His foot drops and for a cupple of miles the needle winds up and up while the road blurs and the air is canvas ripped by giant hands.
Know just how the kid felt about getting hold of a wheel again and the open road ahead. We stopped for gas and I took over. Pretty soon I lifted the lighted cigarette from his fingers and he slept and slept while we pulled through the mountains to home.
While he unpacked I broke out a bottle of Scotch. We lifted glasses and drank it straight and didn't say nothin. They aint made up words yet, so that a man can speak right out loud and say what he really feels when a son comes home. Them of you as has been there, know just what I mean.
