“Come on!” Adam yelled as he loped toward the streetcar at the corner of Eighth and Chestnut.

    Joe, jogging behind, barely managed to swing aboard the car before it pulled away.  Grabbing onto a pole, he scanned the length of the car for a seat and scowled at his brother, who had taken the last one available.  Adam merely laughed.  “I told you to hurry,” he reminded Joe with a disgustingly superior leer.

Joe lurched across the aisle to snare a strap next to his older brother.  “Doggone it, Adam.  How come we didn’t wait for the next car?” he grumbled.  “Gates don’t open ‘til nine, and we’re gonna be there half an hour before that.”

    “Which should insure our getting inside at straight up nine,” Adam stated calmly.  “You’ve seen the Main Building, Joe, so you know we don’t have a minute to spare if we’re going to finish it up today.”

    Joe gave an eloquent sigh for Adam’s benefit, but it elicited no sympathy from his older brother.  A woman sitting across the aisle, however, smiled kindly at the boy, and he responded with a shrug and a shake of his head, followed by a gleaming grin.  The lady was attractive, her stylishly looped black hair setting off an almost milk-white complexion, but she was much too old for him, at least as ancient as his brother Adam and possibly a year or two older.  Despite that disadvantage, Little Joe had a hard time taking his eyes off the lady, and not just because she was pretty and fashionably dressed.  What he was really drawn to was the gold watch pinned to her blouse or, more precisely, the unique strap to which it was attached.  A Centennial ribbon of red, white and blue had been creatively fashioned into a watch fob, and Joe couldn’t help admiring it, although it was, of course, a little too broad and ostentatious for a man to wear.

    The woman tilted her head to one side and looked steadily back at him, a quizzical cast to her dark brown eyes.

    Joe flushed under her scrutiny.  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he apologized quickly.  “I didn’t mean to stare.  I was just admiring your watch fob and wondering—”

    “Joe,” Adam hissed, for in the East one simply didn’t speak to an unknown woman without introduction.

    “It’s all right,” the woman said, her face relaxing as she smiled again at Joe.

    The glint in Adam’s eye, however, clearly communicated that it was not all right, and not wanting to be on the receiving end of another of his older brother’s lectures on proper behavior, Joe deemed it prudent to keep his questions to himself and to direct his gaze elsewhere.  Even when the seat beside the woman became open at the next stop, he remained standing.  Another gentlemen soon took the seat, but only briefly.  As the streetcar pulled up to the next corner, he stood and after apologizing for practically tumbling into the woman’s lap, lurched down the aisle toward the exit while the car was still moving.

    His attention drawn by the lady’s soft grunt when she was jostled by the exiting passenger, Joe looked back toward her again, and his eyebrows came together in a troubled line.  Something didn’t look right.  For a moment Joe wasn’t sure what was wrong.  Then he saw the Centennial ribbon, now sans watch, hanging from the woman’s blouse and immediately discerned what had happened.  “Hey!  You there, stop!” he yelled, charging down the aisle after the clumsy oaf who had just left the lady’s side.

    The man took one look and tried to swing off the car.  Lunging forward, Joe grabbed him and pulled him back in.

    “Joe!  What are you doing?” Adam yelled, coming to his feet and charging toward the men grappling on the floor of the streetcar.

    “Help me!” Joe shouted from beneath his opponent, for while the other man didn’t have his fighting skill, he did have the advantage of size.  “He’s got the lady’s watch!”

    The woman gasped and clutched at the ribbon.  “Oh, no,” she cried.  “Not Grandmother’s watch!  Oh, please, stop him.”

    Adam had already flown into action, plucking the culprit off his younger brother and decking him with a powerful right upper-cut, just as the streetcar jerked to a stop and a man in uniform strode swiftly back to investigate the commotion.  “What’s going on here?” the conductor demanded.  “Get off my car, the lot of you!”

    The woman stood.  “Oh, please, sir.  I believe that man has taken my gold watch.”

    The conductor stared at the man dangling by his collar from Adam’s strong hand.  “Oh, a pickpocket, is it?  We’ve had a rash of the like lately, preying on unsuspecting guests to our law-abiding city.”

    The man quickly protested his innocence, demanding protection from “these ruffians who have accosted me for no reason.”  He sneered at the youth dusting off his trousers after scrambling to his feet.  “More likely, that boy himself is the thief, casting aspersions on an innocent man to cover his own crime.”

    Joe flew at the man.  “You filthy liar!” he yelled.

    More to keep his brother out of trouble than to protect the pickpocket, Adam pulled the man out of Joe’s reach, as the conductor planted himself between the belligerents.  “This is easily settled.  Both of you turn out your pockets and let’s see what we find.”

    Joe was indignant at having his word questioned, but when Adam growled tersely, “Do it,” he turned his pockets inside out, revealing only a small amount of cash, a pocket comb and his own watch, clearly a man’s.

    Satisfied, the conductor turned to the man trying in vain to squirm out of Adam’s grip.  “And now you, sir.”

    “I have never been so insulted in my life,” the man declared.  “I most certainly will not submit to a search of my person.”

    “Then we’ll just have to subject you to one against your will,” Adam proclaimed, pinning the man’s arms behind his back and nodding to the conductor.

    The conductor reached into the man’s pant pockets and found nothing, but from the inner pocket of the vest he pulled a small gold pocket watch.  “Would this be yours, ma’am?”

    The woman gave a cry of joy and reached eager hands toward the watch.  “Oh, yes!  Oh, thank you, thank you.”

    “Not at all, ma’am,” the conductor said, touching his hat after returning the watch.  He turned toward Adam, who was still holding the culprit’s arms in a vise.  “If you would assist me, sir, we’ll locate a constable and have this thief taken into custody.”

    “My pleasure,” Adam said, propelling the pickpocket toward the exit.

    As his brother and the conductor wrestled their prisoner off the car, Joe scooped up his straw hat and pressed out the dent in the crown.

    “I hope it isn’t damaged,” a gentle voice said.

    Joe smiled at the woman.  “No, ma’am, no harm done, but it would have been in a good cause if it had been.”

    The woman laughed softly.  “What a gallant young gentleman you are!”  She patted the seat next to her.

    Joe immediately took it.  Glancing at the ribbon hanging on her chest, his face flushed with anger.  “That brute!  He cut it.”

    “Yes, I’m afraid so,” the woman said, “but it doesn’t matter.  I can easily make another.  The important thing is that, thanks to you, I still have Grandmother’s watch.  It’s very precious to me, young man.”

    “I can see as how it would be,” Joe said, knowing how he treasured the few keepsakes he had from his mother.  “You made that watch fob, then?  You must be mighty good with a needle, ma’am, ‘cause it was a fine one.  I figured you probably got it at the Centennial.”

    The woman laughed.  “Well, in a manner of speaking, I did.  I work at the Singer Sewing Machine Pavilion, doing demonstrations, and I made this from some scrap materials one day when the crowd was light.”

    Adam returned shortly to find his young brother chatting away with complete familiarity with the woman he had met only minutes before and to whom he had yet to be properly introduced.  As the conductor signaled for the driver to start again, Adam looked across at Joe and shook his head.  “You just can’t stay out of trouble more than a day at a time, can you?”

    The lady next to Joe shook an admonishing finger toward Adam.  “Now, you mustn’t scold this brave young man.  He’s done me a valuable service.”

    Adam chuckled.  “Ah, yes, he’s a regular little Sir Lancelot, always ready to aid a lady in distress.”

    The woman smiled.  “Indeed, he is!  And Queen Guinevere would like to bestow a reward on her brave knight,” she said, opening her reticule.

    “No, that’s not necessary,” Adam said at once.  “I’m sure my brother wouldn’t consider taking anything.”

    “No, I wouldn’t,” Joe retorted, angry that his brother had felt it necessary to answer for him.  Just another example of Adam’s lack of trust in him.

    Sensing the strain between the two brothers, the woman at once closed her reticule and struck up a new subject with Little Joe.  They continued talking and laughing, Joe pointedly ignoring his brother, as the streetcar made its way toward Fairmount Park.

    When two more ladies boarded the car at the next stop, Adam immediately gave up his seat with a polite tip of his black bowler.  As the other lady looked sadly at the crowded car, he said, “Joe.”

    When his brother didn’t respond, Adam cleared his throat.  “Joseph.”  Joe continued to appear deaf, so Adam took a deep breath and lifted his voice.  “Joseph Francis Cartwright!”

    That got Joe’s attention.  No one but Pa ever called him by his full name, and it always meant trouble when Ben Cartwright reached that level of frustration.  Joe raised his head and looked up at his brother.  “What, Adam?”  As soon as he looked up, however, he saw the lady standing in the aisle and immediately bounced to his feet before his brother could say a word.  “I’m sorry, ma’am.  I didn’t see you,” he apologized quickly.  “Please take my seat.”

    “Thank you,” the woman said briskly, but her smile of gratitude rested on Adam’s face and not that of his young brother.

    Joe gave Adam a sheepish shrug and grabbed onto a strap for the remainder of the ride to the Centennial grounds.  When the horse car arrived at the main entrance, he jumped off and reached back to assist his “Queen Guinevere” in alighting from the conveyance.

    “Thank you, gentle knight,” she said with a bit of a royal curtsey.  Then she looked up at Adam, who had come to stand beside them.  “Would you escort me to the employees’ entrance, sir?” she requested.

    “I’d be happy to, your majesty,” Joe offered with a bow.

    Seeing the woman give a slight shake of her head, Adam clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder.  “Sorry, lad.  Your king has another commission for you.”  Taking a dollar from his pocket, he ordered Joe to purchase their tickets.  As a scowling Joe trotted off to do the “king’s” bidding, Adam offered his arm to the lady.

    As they started toward the entrance whose gilt sign indicated that it was for exhibitors, the press and employees, she smiled up at him.  “I don’t really require an escort.  I merely wanted a private word with you.”  She stopped and said, “I work in the Singer Sewing Pavilion.  Do you know where that is?”

    “I believe so,” Adam said.  “I have a map with me, at any rate, should I need to find it.”

    “Please do,” she urged, “and please bring the boy.  I truly wish to reward his chivalry.  One sees it so rarely these days.”

    “True enough,” Adam conceded, “but as I said before no reward is required, nor will one be accepted.”

    She lifted a remonstrative hand.  “A mere token,” she insisted, “of no monetary value.  Think of it simply as a remembrance of our brief acquaintance.”

    Adam couldn’t find a reason to refuse an offer presented on that basis.  “Very well.  We’ll drop by after lunch, if that won’t interfere with your work.”

    The woman laughed.  “But attending to visitors is my work!  After lunch is an ideal time.  Should you not see me on entering the pavilion, just ask for Mrs. Atkinson.”

    “Oh, you’re married,” Adam said, adding with a teasing smile, “Sir Lancelot will be so disappointed.”

    “Queen Guinevere was, as well, if you’ll recall,” a twinkle-eyed Mrs. Atkinson reminded him, pleasing Adam with her knowledge of the literary reference.  “I’m a widow, but too old to tempt that valiant young knight, I think.”

    “Speaking of the young knight, I’d better get back before he goes off on another quest,” Adam chuckled and with a tip of his hat, he bid the lady farewell and joined Joe in the line of visitors awaiting the opening of the gate.  As usual, it opened promptly at 9 a.m. that Friday morning, and the Cartwright brothers at once made their way to the south door of the Main Exhibition Hall, to avoid the crowds heading for the western entrance.  Although the German exhibits, where he planned to begin, were unenclosed, Adam insisted on passing the cases nearest the door to walk up the central transept to the main aisle.

    Joe didn’t complain, despite the extra steps.  He’d learned that each country liked to put its best foot forward, in essence, by placing its finest products on the front line.  What lay behind that was all too often, Joe recalled with distaste, educational.  Germany’s front line was no exception to that rule, with its crescent-shaped case filled with porcelain from the Royal Prussian Factory of Berlin.  At each end stood a tall column of ebony and gold with a gilt Prussian eagle perched on top.

    “Bert said this was the most beautiful single exhibit in the entire building,” Adam reminded Joe.

    Joe nodded, recalling the conversation over dinner at the Continental, and turned his attention back to the beautiful pieces.  Set off against black velvet, the delicately painted porcelain filled two long shelves, with flatter pieces hung on the wall behind them, including framed paintings on rectangular plates.  In front of all these cups and saucers, plates, statuettes and busts, were three large vases, each on a separate stand.  Joe was again astounded by the prices affixed to the works of art.  One cost five thousand dollars, the second forty-five hundred and the least expensive, an olive green piece with a painting of Otho in the tomb of Charlemagne, was still a staggering nine hundred dollars.  Joe was more taken with a small table of carved oak with a porcelain top, on which was painted a reproduction of Raphael’s Poetry.  At twenty-two hundred dollars, however, it was unlikely to grace any room at the Ponderosa.

    West of the porcelain was an exhibit of plate glass and near it one of jewelry.  For some reason Adam examined the cameos with special interest.  A gift for a female friend, Joe assumed, but he wasn’t sure which girl his older brother cared for enough to spend that kind of money.  Becky, maybe, since she shared Adam’s love for books and he seemed to squire her around more often than the other fillies that caught his eye.  Well, at least older brother’s taste was improving, both in gifts—no blue bugs this time—and women, for brown-eyed Becky was pretty enough to capture Joe’s personal interest, if she weren’t so much closer to Adam’s age than his own.

    Further west, a collection of bronzes was exhibited, including a copy of a monument to Frederick the Great, whose original stood in Unter den Linden in Berlin.  Near it, Joe spied a group of shields and swords that reawakened his boyish love for tales of knights and medieval chivalry and his memory of the events on the streetcar that morning.  As far as he was concerned, they could have skipped the next cases of hosiery, yarn and gloves from Saxony, but since Adam, of course, still insisted on seeing everything in order, Joe simply suffered through those exhibits, as well as the fancy fabrics from there and Nuremberg.

    Turning into the next aisle south, Little Joe found a tall ebony case enclosing a huge tusk of ivory in its native state.  Smaller glassed-in areas below showcased items made from the expensive material, such as spoons, frames and cameos.  Again Adam eyed the latter appraisingly.  Becky—or whomever else Adam had in mind—was going to be one lucky girl when Adam returned to Virginia City, Joe surmised.

    Even Adam, to his younger brother’s evident relief, seemed willing to pass the case of chemical canisters with barely a glance, though the lamps and lanterns of Leipzig, just west of them, merited more attention, in Adam’s view, at least.   As they turned south into the next aisle back, Joe readily understood his brother’s interest in the cases of musical instruments, especially the guitars.  Joe himself found the cases of brass, wind and string instruments worthy of note, for he had never before seen so many different varieties, and he listened attentively as Adam named each one: cornets, bugles, trombones, tubas, clarinets, violins and, perched on top of the display case, two violoncellos.  Adjoining the other musical instruments on the east, a number of both upright and grand pianos, some in artistically carved ebony, were displayed, with a group of cabinet organs and one large pipe organ exhibited beside them.

    Life got boring again after that, as Adam examined and Joe endured cases of scientific and philosophical instruments.  Then, when they reached the south wall of the hall, life went from boring to downright depressing, at least according to Little Joe.  The litters and camp beds of the German hospital system were bad enough, but Joe absolutely drew the line at viewing photographs of surgical operations.  “So help me, Adam, I’m gonna be sick if I have to look at pictures of men with their guts gushing out.”

    Adam laid a sympathetic hand on his brother’s shoulder.  “Okay, buddy, we’ll move on,” he said, unwilling to admit to his kid brother how eager he was to do just that.  Though he had stared in morbid fascination at the photos, the buried memories were once again rushing toward him, bringing a queasiness to his stomach unrivaled since the day such scenes had been real.

    The next exhibit, by the clockmakers of the Black Forest, seemed a safe alternative.  Here again, though, Adam was brought face to face with his young brother’s desire to purchase a timepiece for their father.  “Why don’t you consider buying a small musical clock for Pa’s bedroom,” Adam suggested, as they were attractive pieces, but less costly than the Swiss watch he himself hoped to buy.

    Joe frowned in thought.  It would take a major portion of his budget to get one of the more nicely carved ones, and nothing less would do for Pa.  “I think I’ll wait,” he said, and Adam nodded his approval.

    Passing a display of religious figures, similar to the French ones they’d seen before, the Cartwright brothers came to two models of the Hamburg steamship Frisia, one complete in every detail and the other a longitudinal section of the interior, from keel to deck.  Opposite them, A. W. Faber of Nuremberg presented a collection of lead pencils, crayons and colors.  Recognizing the maker of the colored pencils he had used in school, Little Joe laughed.  “Hey, Adam, you remember that time I made a valentine picture of Pa with pencils like these?”

    Adam chuckled.  “Yes, and I remember the first one you drew, too—for Cochise!”

    Joe, quite willing to laugh at his younger self, emitted a high-pitched cackle.  “Yeah, she was the only girl I saw any use in back then.”

    “And how we’ve all wished it had never changed!” Adam offered dryly.

    Joe gave his brother the obligatory nose crinkle, but as they made their way toward the final German exhibits, he found himself remembering how graciously Adam had helped him that day when he’d been in such trouble with Miss Jones over misinterpreting her valentine assignment.  Didn’t have a doubt back then that he loved me, Joe mused.  Well, not many, anyway, not after those first rough days when he came back from college.  Wonder why it’s so hard to be sure now, why we seem to be at each other’s throats half the time.  Who changed—him or me?  Mulling it over, Joe resolved to make a determined effort to keep the peace that day and to look for things that bound them together, rather than those that pulled them apart.

    In that vein, he made a droll comment as they entered the pavilion of the German booksellers.  “I suppose you read German, too, big brother?”

    Adam smiled at the pride twinkling in his brother’s expressive eyes.  “A little, but I probably won’t be buying a book here, just admiring the view.”

    “Gotta admit it’s a good one,” Joe responded, with a determinedly cheery grin.

    Adam threw an arm around the boy’s slim shoulders as they passed through one of the four portals into the pavilion and pointed at the cornice surrounding the interior with gilt sentences in Greek, Latin, German and English.  “Like the mottoes?” he inquired.

    “Well, I can only read one of them,” Joe admitted with a self-deprecating laugh that sounded just a bit forced to his older brother.

    “The others are similar,” Adam said, hoping that Joe didn’t think he was ridiculing his lack of learning.  “They all laud the friendship of books and the solaces of study.”

    “I might buy the friendship bit,” Joe said with a pert smile, “but study a solace?  That’s too big a stretch, Adam!”

    “Only proves you need more exposure,” Adam teased.  He brushed a stray curl behind his brother’s ear and was surprised to see Joe lean into the affectionate touch he ordinarily spurned as an insult to his manhood.

“Now, that’s what I’d really like exposure to,” Joe declared, pointing at a sign for the Café Leland, which could be seen outside the pavilion by peeking above the sentences about the friendship of books.

    “You can’t be hungry already,” Adam moaned.  “We’ve barely started.”

    “Like Hoss says, ‘I can always eat,’” Joe replied with a saucy smirk.

    “It’s too early for dinner,” Adam scolded.  “I’ll buy you a popcorn ball at the next stand we pass.”

    “I was just kidding, Adam,” Joe chuckled.  “I’m more thirsty than hungry, so how about making that popcorn ball a glass of soda?”

    “I’ll even join you for that,” Adam agreed quickly.  “It’s another hot one.”

    “They’re all hot ones in Philadelphia, brother,” Joe moaned.

    A quick tour through the furs of Leipzig, ebony and oak furniture from Stuttgart, and the exhibit of the Royal Saxon Cabinetmakers of Dresden finished the German exhibits.  Walking back to the main aisle again, Adam purchased the promised soda waters for himself and his brother, and, thus refreshed, they set out to visit another country.

    The next exhibits belonged to Austria-Hungary, although all but a few came from Austria alone.  Adam and Joe first came to a four-tiered display of porcelain and china, everything from the hand-sized candleholder on a shelf six inches off the floor to the lidded ewer forming the pinnacle of the pyramid, a container so heavy Hoss would have found it hard to heft.  Between these two extremes were arrayed plates and platters, tureens and teapots, everything a family might need to entertain lavishly.  Little Joe pointed to one of the tri-level serving dishes.  “Something like that would be nice for parties, to show off Hop Sing’s fanciest cookies.”

    To Joe’s gratification, his older brother appeared to be giving the suggestion serious consideration, although all Adam said in response was, “Maybe.”

    The next exhibit, one of meerschaum pipes, really caught Joe’s excited attention.  The ornamental pipes were intricately crafted with the heads of famous people or more simply in shapes of animals, birds and fish.  Others portrayed hunting or historic scenes or the comic episodes of everyday life.  “Pa would love one of these, Adam!”

    “They’re fine works and would make a unique gift,” Adam agreed, “but a little high for you, aren’t they?”

    “Yeah, but so is everything,” Joe sighed, adding hesitantly, “Maybe you’d like to go in together, so we could do better by Pa?”  He remembered, too late, his brother’s reluctance to join forces to buy Pa a watch, and Adam’s response now made him wish he hadn’t brought it up again.

    Adam snorted.  “I can do just fine by Pa without your help, little brother, and if you’d followed your older brother’s sage advice to save your pennies, you wouldn’t find yourself crimped now.”

    “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Joe muttered, turning away.  Evidently, education wasn’t the only bitter pill Adam wanted him to swallow, but Joe had to admit he deserved this particular trip to the medicine cabinet.  If he hadn’t spent so much of his money on Saturday nights at the Silver Dollar or squandered so much in high-stakes poker games, he could have had the pleasure of buying anything he wanted, too, just like his deep-pocketed big brother. Naw, I could never be that rich, but maybe Pa and Adam have a point about my money habits, he conceded with a sigh.  Guess the only way out is to spend what I’ve got on Pa and Hoss and my friends and go home with nothing for me.  He smiled, then, face brightening.  What did he need with some trinket to remember this trip by, anyway?  He’d had the trip itself and that thanks to the generosity of Mr. Deep Pockets.  Suddenly, the pill didn’t seem so bitter to swallow.

    “Ready to move on?” Adam inquired and Joe nodded.

    The exhibit of stained glass and other glassware drew the avid attention of the older Cartwright brother.  Most of it came from Bohemia and was displayed on broad counters with mirrored tops.  The colors were marvelous, particularly the cerulean shade that looked like a sky effused with the blushing glow of the setting sun, but Adam seemed particularly enchanted by a set of ruby glasses overlaid with gold vines.  “Beautiful,” he whispered.

    “They’d match,” Joe offered, referring to the red and white dinnerware often used at home for regular meals.

    “We’ll see,” Adam commented, shaking himself.  “Time to move on.”

    Joe almost groaned aloud when he saw what they moved on to, another exhibit of engineering and architectural photos, models, designs and reports.  He was beginning to realize that Adam couldn’t pass up a single piece of paper on this subject, but he decided to bear with his brother’s weakness patiently.  It was too early in the day to have a row with Adam over something the poor guy just couldn’t help.

    The Cartwright brothers traversed the remaining Austrian and Hungarian exhibits quickly, for few of them inspired lengthy attention.  The carpets were of good quality, but not as fine as the ones from France, America and, according to Bert Morganstern, Great Britain.  The musical instruments were much the same as those crafted elsewhere, and neither Adam nor Joe was particularly drawn to the sets of iron furniture.  The jewelers’ exhibit, with mother-of-pearl from Vienna and garnet from Prague, was beautiful, but so small it didn’t take long to view, while there was nothing in the cases of cloth from Moravia or silk and buttons from Vienna to keep men staring into them for long.  They spent a little more time examining the leather goods and then were ready to see what Russia had sent to represent her best products.

    The unenclosed exhibits of Russia were indicated by a shield with the imperial arms, placed in a trophy of Russian and American colors and affixed to a pillar on the main aisle.  In the front line octagonal and square cases of dark oak and plate glass displayed a variety of pieces crafted in silver and bronze.  At the east end, where the Cartwright brothers began their tour, Felix Chopin of St. Petersburg exhibited bronzes with scenes from the life of Russian peasants, as well as more elaborate pieces in costlier metals, such as the candelabra of gilt and porcelain.  Standing fifteen feet high with flower vases around its base, the lamp stand held one hundred candles.  Opposite it was a four-foot clock with the hours encircling a large globe of silver and an angel in flight pointing to the appropriate hour with one hand, while the other gestured toward heaven.

    Next, P. Ouchinnikoff of Moscow and St. Petersburg displayed finely crafted articles in gold and silver, including an altarpiece with a portrait of the Savior holding the Gospel, painted on enamel and mounted on gold.  A tankard, made from a single piece of silver, decorated in gilt, featured a replica of a statue of Peter the Great at its top, while around the sides, in high relief, was depicted the entry of Peter into Moscow after the battle of Pultawa.  “Hard to see drinking beer from a mug that costs three thousand dollars,” Joe quipped.

    “Mug,” Adam repeated with pretended scorn.  “You have such an affinity for art, little brother.”

    “Well, I do have some affinity for it.”  Joe thrust forward a playfully puckered lip.

    Adam chucked him under the chin.  “I know, kid; I’m just trying to enhance it beyond Faber pencil sketches of Cochise.”

    “Oh, you’re funny,” Joe said with a light scowl as he turned to view another example of the Moscow silversmith’s work, a massive salver whose centerpiece was carved with a depiction of the Kremlin.  “Well, at least platters come cheaper than drinking mugs,” he chuckled, glancing at the price tag of a mere two thousand dollars.  At the west end of the front line, Sazikoff of Moscow displayed two showcases of gold and silver articles for table service, personal use and household ornament, equally exquisite in their workmanship and equally high in price.  Somehow, Joe had a feeling nothing from Moscow was going to find its way onto the Ponderosa table.

    The next row of exhibits, while beautiful, merited short appraisal by the Cartwright men, who anticipated little need for cloth of gold decorated with silver.  Behind this, however, cases of furs and stuffed specimens of fur-bearing animals held their attention longer, Joe being especially taken with the stuffed bear holding an example of dressed fur between his paws.  Behind the huge animal, above cases of garments made from Arctic fox and wolf fur, were stretched hides of bear, tiger, leopard and other animals, with their heads still attached and still higher, practically touching the ceiling, was another stuffed, fur-carrying bear, flanked by smaller specimens of other types of fur-producing animals.

    Passing a case of uniforms of various branches of the Russian army, Joe winced as another exhibit of mathematical and philosophical instruments came into view.  For once, though, Adam didn’t spend much time perusing the scientific materials, and they moved on to a case of statuettes, busts and vases in ornamental cast iron.  These were of lighter weight and lesser expense than the bronze pieces, but Joe thought the copy of the statue of Peter the Great at St. Petersburg was well done.  Adam merely shrugged, conveying, to his brother’s eye, at least, that there were many more artistic pieces on view in other areas.

    Reaching the southwest corner of the Russian court, Adam stopped to admire a billiard table of carved oak.  As Joe knew, his brother was fond of the game, but found few opportunities to test his abilities in Virginia City, although a number of the saloons had tables—none so fine as this one, of course. Sorry, brother, Joe mused.  Can’t afford a watch or pipe for Pa, so drooling over this in front of me ain’t gonna do you a lick of good.

    Only a few Russian exhibits remained, and the Cartwrights finished them quickly, Adam insisting that they would see better examples of furniture, perfume, soap, porcelain, majolica and pottery elsewhere.  With a staggering number of countries yet to visit, Joe was happy to give these a quick once-over.

    Walking back to the main aisle, Adam motioned for Joe to sit with him on one of the benches facing the faux-granite façade of the Spanish pavilion.  “I wanted to explain the architecture to you,” he said, “if you’re interested.”

    “Sure, why not?” Joe responded, plopping down with a sassy smile.  “Anything that gets me off my feet for a spell.”

    Adam moaned softly, hoping the kid was only feigning the superficial motivation.  Knowing Joe, though, if the disinterest had been real, there’d have been no disguising it, so Adam took heart and launched into a description of the style represented before them.  “It’s called Plateresque,” he began, “and was widely popular in Spain during the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.”

    “Going back kind of far for a modern building, ain’t it?” Joe inserted.

    “Isn’t it,” Adam corrected, “and the purpose, I’m sure, is to celebrate their heritage.  Now, listen and learn, please.”

    “All ears, big brother,” Joe said, with a grin so wide it almost touched both auricular orifices.

    With a roll of his eyes, Adam continued.  “The term means “silversmith-like” and was suggested by Cristóbal de Villalón to describe the richly ornamented façade of the Cathedral of León, which, to him, appeared as intricate as the work of a silversmith.”

    “That’s pretty intricate, all right, judging by the Russians,” Joe commented.

    Pleased to see his brother taking apparent interest in his favorite topic, Adam went on warmly, “It’s really a Spanish version of Renaissance style, but more ornamental than the Italian.  You see how the bare walls make a backdrop for the clusters of decorations over doorways and on other building details.”

    “What about the pictures?” Joe asked, gesturing toward the circular portraits of a Spanish lady and gentleman, enclosed in panels on either side of the central entrance of the three leading into the court.

    “Well, heraldic escutcheons would be more traditional,” Adam chuckled.  “Those two are Isabella and Columbus, in honor of Spain’s connection with our part of the world, and according to the catalog, there are portraits of Ponce de Leon, Cortez, De Soto and Pizarro on the other sides.  We’ll be sure to look at those before we finish.”  Though he could have gone on at length, describing each aspect of the architecture in detail, neither time nor his young brother’s attention span was likely to permit him that luxury, so Adam suggested that they enter the pavilion and see what Spain had sent to the Centennial.

    Before going inside, though, the brothers looked at the items exhibited in cases built into the façade itself.  On either side of the velvet-draped central arch, works of gold, silver, ornamental iron and steel were showcased, while the glassed-in cases around the sides of the pavilion represented the mineral wealth of the country in silver, lead, copper, iron, coal and Spanish marble.  Still others revealed a collection of photographs of government museums of ancient armor.  “You think they have any real ones inside?” Joe asked, obviously hoping for a positive response.

    “I don’t recall any listed in the catalog,” Adam responded with an indulgent smile, “but let’s go inside and see if we can’t find you a sword or shield, my little knight errant.”

    “Oh, will you quit teasing me about that?” Joe grumbled, knowing that his brother was referring to his defense of the woman on the streetcar.

    “I’ll think about it,” Adam responded, amusement twinkling in his dark eyes though he kept a straight face as he gestured toward the entrance.

    None of Spain’s exhibits were commercial in nature, but were presented solely to educate visitors to the Exposition about the natural resources and manufacturing products of the country.  The Cartwright brothers dutifully walked past cases of fabrics and tapestries, glassware, painted porcelain tiles and pottery, the latter being quite different from that exhibited by other European countries.  The cream-colored earthenware with a rough-textured shell pattern suggested a Moorish origin.  “Reminiscent of the Etruscan,” Adam murmured.

    “It’s more reminiscent of big pots I’ve seen in California,” Joe snickered back.

    “Well, there probably are similar cultural roots,” Adam pointed out.  “If you’d like, I could amplify.”

    Joe waved his hands before his face.  “Some other time, professor, some other time.  Just now I—uh—have to look at these real interesting”—he spun around, searching for something to name—“uh—blocks of coal,” he finished lamely, voice fading.

    Adam laughed.  “All right, kid.  I’ll spare you the lecture on the Etruscan civilization—at least for now.”  He and Joe walked past displays of building stones and chemicals and cases of hats, shoes, clothes, wool blankets and carpets before finally something so caught Joe’s attention that Adam thought he might have trouble pulling his brother away.

    One sight of that long, narrow Toledo blade, and it was love at first sight for the youngest Cartwright.  Good thing they’ve got it behind glass, Adam observed, or he’d take off, swashbuckling down the aisles, terrifying everyone in sight.  “Hers was much lighter, you know,” he said softly.

    The pronoun needed no antecedent for Joe to identify to whom “hers” referred.  “Of course, I know,” he said.  “I’ve handled Mama’s epee, but this is a beautiful blade, Adam.  I’m just admiring it.”

    “Are you sure the word isn’t ‘coveting’?” Adam inquired wryly.

    Joe grinned.  “Why, no, big brother, that would be a sin, and you know what a saint I am.”

    Adam put his hand to his throat and pretended to choke.  “Saint Joseph,” he gasped.  “No, those words simply don’t belong in the same sentence, much less side by side.”

    “Much you know,” Joe snorted.  “At least there is a Saint Joseph in the Bible—even got a town named after himself.  Maybe you remember it—somewhere in Missouri?”

    “I seem to recall passing through there,” Adam muttered dryly.

    “Yeah, but what you don’t recall is any mention of a Saint Adam, in the Good Book or anywhere on any map,” Joe jibed, “now, do you?”

    Adam rolled his tongue inside pursed lips, and then replied, “That’s because they don’t make men saints ‘til after their death—and I’m still among the living.”  He ended with a wide, triumphant grin.

    Apparently overcome, Joe collapsed against his brother’s chest.  “I can’t take that on an empty stomach,” he sputtered.

    “Your stomach is not empty,” Adam chuckled, “or at least it had better not be, because I’m not feeding you for . . . oh . . . about seven or eight more countries.”

    Pushing away from his brother, Joe groaned.  “Let’s get started then.  I would like my dinner before suppertime.”

    Adam loosely circled the boy’s waist.  “It’s not as bad as it sounds, buddy; some of them have very few exhibits and won’t take long at all.  The next one, for instance.”

    “Hawaii?” Joe said, reading the sign over the next pavilion.  “Where’s that, Adam?”

    “Don’t you know?” Adam teased and when Joe only looked back, perturbed at the twitting, he explained, “You probably know the country better as the Sandwich Islands.”

    “Oh, sure,” Joe said.  “In the Pacific.  I know them.”

    The brothers walked through one of the two arched entrances into the small pavilion and discovered that despite its limited size, it held some of the most fascinating materials they had yet seen.  The barrels of coffee and sugar didn’t look any different here than in the general store back home, but the specimens of lava from Kilauea, the largest active volcano in the world, were unlike anything exhibited elsewhere, except in the Mexican pavilion.  The furniture styles were similar to those of the European countries and America, but the native woods from which the tables and other pieces were constructed gave each an exotic flavor.

    The displays of native culture interested the Cartwright boys, as well, from the calabashes used to hold food to the Hawaiian version of millinery.  The flora and fauna of the small nation were shown in cases of stuffed birds, along with another of ferns and mosses, and one case attractively displayed pink and white coral, shells and seaweed.  Photographs of island scenes helped place the exhibited items in context.

    As lovely as the Hawaiian exhibits were, however, viewing them took only a short while, as Adam had promised, and he and Joe soon moved on to another even more limited, the exhibits from Tunis.  These were so similar to what they had seen displayed in the Turkish bazaar that the brothers sped through that country as if carried by transcontinental train.  Everything displayed was the property of the Bey of Tunis and included gilt furniture, wool blankets and shawls, woven silks and jewelry, along with antique relics from the ruins of Carthage.  Not even the daggers and swords caught Joe’s eye, for he’d already purchased one almost identical to those displayed.

    Exhibits from Portugal stood just north of those from Tunis and were enclosed in a line of wooden showcases, stained in imitation of black walnut.  Adam and Joe walked in through the east entrance, one of three into the area and found, first of all, more fabrics.  A quick perusal and they were ready to move on to something of greater interest, for Adam, at least.  He viewed with close concentration the topographical and geological maps and charts and paid particular attention to the drawings of Portugal’s principal harbors, while Joe, as usual, took greater pleasure in the photographs of the countryside and the large specimens of natural minerals arrayed below the charts and maps.

    Glassware, pottery and porcelain were displayed on tables and pedestals in the center of the other exhibits.  While well formed, the shapes seemed simpler and the lines less detailed than the pieces from France.  Little Joe passed by them with a brief glance, but Adam was amazed and amused by what stopped the boy in his tracks, a table of papier-mâché figures in native Portuguese costume.

“Dolls?” Adam asked in wonder when Joe reached over to check the price tag.  “Oh, for one of your little girlfriends, I suppose.”

    Joe flushed.  “No, but you’d laugh if I told you what I was really thinking.”  He gave his lips a nervous lick and fell silent.

    Noticing and correctly interpreting that Joe wanted to tell him, but feared ridicule, Adam touched his arm with a supportive hand.  “No, I won’t laugh.  What’s your idea, little buddy?”

    Still looking hesitant, Joe took a breath and plunged in.  “I was thinking, maybe, for Pa.  Kind of a reminder of places and people he once saw—back when he was sailing, I mean.  I know it’s not much, but I can afford this, and I think a watch is just gonna be more than I can handle.  Stupid, huh?”

    Adam actually thought the idea was the worst Joe had come up with yet, but sensing his brother’s need for reassurance, he quickly said, “No, not stupid, but I’d think it over awhile before deciding, if I were you, in case you see other reminders he might enjoy more.”

    “Oh, yeah, I intended to,” Joe hastened to say, obviously eager to earn his older brother’s respect.

    Adam nodded and turned him toward the final exhibit in the Portuguese area, a case of flowers, baskets, ships and other articles made of fig tree fiber from the island of St. Michael in the Azores.  After that, he and Joe were ready to see one of the larger exhibits again.

    Egypt had enclosed her displays inside a replica of an ancient temple.  Made of wood, the structure had been painted in imitation of stone, and two massive pillars with lotus flower capitals flanked the sides of the entrance.  A simulated engraving on the two sides declared, “Egypt—Soodan—the oldest people of the world sends its morning greeting to the youngest nation.”

    Entering, Joe noticed first the model of the pyramid of Giza on his right, but Adam called his attention to the plaster bust opposite it.  “This is the man thought to be the Pharaoh in the time of your namesake.”

    Joe gave him a blank look.  “Hmm?”

    Adam smiled.  “Joseph, the one in the Old Testament; surely you remember him.”

    “Oh, yeah, him.  The one whose older brothers treated him so bad,” Joe said, puckish twinkle in his eye.  “Yeah, I always found it real easy to identify with him.”

    Adam gave the impudent rascal’s ear a playful tug.

    “See what I mean!” Joe tittered, bouncing off toward the side wall to look at the photographs and drawings of Egyptian scenery.  Mere pictures couldn’t hold his attention, however, in the face of what, to Joe, seemed the most marvelous display of any he’d seen that morning.  “Adam, look!” he cried, all but running to see the case of magnificent saddles used by the pashas of Egypt on ceremonial occasions.

    “Joe, for goodness’ sake,” Adam began to scold, but stopped when he saw his brother’s worshipful gaze upon the hangings of crimson velvet, embroidered with gold, the harness and trappings of pure bullion and the silk saddle blankets.  Truly, riding gear worthy of royalty—worthy, even, of young Prince Cartwright and his noble steed, Cochise.  Adam finished the thought with a grin. Sorry, little buddy, can’t help you out; even for me, this would be too costly a gift.  “They’re wonderful, Joe,” he said, “but we can’t stand here staring at saddles half the morning.  Now, stay with me, please.  No more running off.”

    “Yes, Pa,” Joe muttered, casting a final fond look at the wonderful saddles as he was led toward a far less fascinating display of furniture.  Nothing within the exotic Egyptian pavilion could fail to excite interest, however, for everything was so different from the world the Cartwright brothers knew that each turn revealed yet more wonders.  Even the furniture featured pieces of rare beauty and value, such as the ebony cabinet inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl, priced at $5,500.  There were two large cases of silk, woven with gold and silver thread, but Little Joe ignored them to stare, gape-mouthed, at the huge, stuffed crocodile resting on a low platform between them.  “Whoa!  I’d sure hate to meet up with one of those up in the hills.”

    “They don’t live ‘up in the hills,’” Adam grunted with a perturbed shake of his head.

    “I know that,” Joe shot back.  “I was just sayin’ they look dangerous.”

    “They are dangerous,” Adam agreed.  “Better stand back, little buddy, before those jaws snap shut on your scrawny little arm.”

    “You better stand back, if you’re scared of a dead lizard.”  Joe tossed the advice aside with a saucy grin and took off again, destination unknown.

    Adam took a deep breath and gave chase, fortunately finding his flighty little brother not far away, entranced by another collection of saddles, these intended for use on dromedaries.  After almost forcibly dragging the boy away, Adam directed his attention to an exhibit of red pottery and then to one of books and manuscripts written in Arabic.

    “If you tell me you read Arabic, too, I’m gonna throttle you, Adam,” Joe said, his tone serious, but his eyes merry.

    Appreciating the joke, Adam chuckled.  “I’m safe, then; it’s as meaningless to me as it is to you.  Beautiful script, though.”

    Joe smiled, noticing that Adam was responding with greater warmth toward him. Reckon it’s ‘cause I’m trying harder to get along?  Feeling fairly certain that it was, he felt rewarded for his efforts and inspired to continue trying to keep things light and friendly between himself and his older brother.

    The Egyptian pavilion was a good place to put those good intentions into practice, since almost everything inside its walls, from household implements of ivory, horn and metal to tableware of solid gold, interested both of the Cartwright brothers.  Even the silk exhibit held their attention, for instead of just displaying bolts of fabric, cocoons were arranged in orderly patterns, according to tint, and attached to an upright branch to resemble clusters of glass grapes.

    Passing a display of rugs and carpets, Adam and Joe came to the exhibit from the Khedive, America’s newest rival in the cotton trade.  Though the Khedive had only begun growing cotton in 1860, it was able to send two thousand samples of native cotton to the Centennial.  Also on display were sugar, leather, gum, bark, nuts, wheat and other grains and grasses from the region.  Though none of these excited lengthy examination, it wasn’t until they reached the educational exhibit that Little Joe had to exercise much patience.  Adam, of course, was immediately consumed with the mechanical instruments made by students from the Polytechnic Institute in Cairo, but Joe willed himself to wait quietly until his brother was finished.  Somehow, it seemed easier today, although, he reminded himself, the day was still young.  Plenty of time left for one of their traditionally explosive battles.

    “Sorry,” Adam muttered ruefully when he glanced up to see his younger brother standing with his hands clasped behind his back, the image of strained patience.  “I guess we shouldn’t spend half the morning looking at engineering tools, any more than saddles.”

    “It’s okay, Adam,” Joe said, although his face revealed how eager he was to move on.

    Adam smiled, instantly discerning that his little brother was making a sincere effort to be good-natured.  Could he afford to do less?  “What do you say we check out the Danish exhibits now?”

    The bright smile beaming from Joe’s face made words unnecessary.

    Denmark’s exhibits were enclosed in a triple court, the entrance to the first being a triumphal arch, with the country’s name inscribed on either side in circular medallions capped with crowns of gold.  Over the arch a shield with the national arms was placed against a sextet of banners bearing the Danish colors, but the adornments that caught Little Joe’s immediate attention were two nude statuettes flanking the arch.  Seeing his little brother gawking in adolescent fascination at the pieces, Adam cleared his throat loudly and made a wide, sweeping gesture toward the portal.

    Passing into the north court, the Cartwrights discovered it to be largely devoted to works in terra cotta.  There were Etruscan imitations from Copenhagen, vases of a yellow background with figures and borders boldly painted in black and others, whose surface was blackened and covered with landscapes, figures or flowers in oil colors.  One large vase, however, was made of solid silver, priced at $4,290.  In its center was a statue of Fame with the Arts grouped around her feet, while the wide base supported figures depicting the triumph of Neptune.  A small table directly in front of it held two curiously wrought silver knives.  Joe almost instinctively reached out to touch them, but a tap on his wrist reminded him that they were for observation only.  Joe nodded and pulled his hand back.

    The exhibits of the central court, reached through a red-draped doorway, were entirely different.  Adam and Joe first encountered a sample of the native woods of Denmark and then a display of spindle-legged furniture made from wood of the pear tree.  Clothing worn by the native Eskimos of Greenland was also exhibited within the middle court, as well as the furs and skins from which it was made.

    The south court was devoted to exhibits from Greenland.  With his love of architecture, Adam was intrigued by the model of an Eskimo winter house, its board walls enclosed in a layer of brown sea moss.  It was Little Joe, however, who lifted its lid and giggled at the large family, dressed in skins and lying in bed, inside the model.  “Control yourself,” Adam scolded gently.  Still, he couldn’t resist a couple of chuckles himself, although the real object of his amusement was not the Eskimo house, nor its tiny inhabitants, but the laughing boy now busily exploring the kayak exhibited nearby.

    Though interesting, Denmark’s contribution to the Centennial was small by comparison with some of the other countries, so Adam and Joe soon left its court for the Japanese one, which was enclosed in a light bamboo framework, ornamented with Japanese flags.  As this country’s space was three times as large as that of Egypt and equally exotic, the Cartwrights would spend considerable time there.  Even as they entered, they were drawn, as if by magnet, to a simulated garden.  A twelve-foot circular area had been enclosed by rough boulders, which retained the earth necessary to grow ferns, coleus and other green plants.  These were arrayed in relief against a mass of rock-like bronze, which rose two feet high to spread and blend into a bronze vase four feet in diameter.  Decorated with flying cranes, from its center rose the figure of an old tree crag, supporting a green-bronzed, winged dragon.  Little Joe shivered, feeling as though he were seeing a monster from one of the old tales Hop Sing used to tell him as a child, during the long hours when everyone else was off working the ranch.  Those had been Chinese dragons, of course, and Joe looked forward to seeing that country’s exhibits and comparing its dragons with these.

    The surrounding area was filled with bronze vases, as exquisitely crafted as the European ones and seeming to draw even greater attention from the Exposition’s American visitors.  “Oh, we must take home something from Japan,” a woman dressed in the latest fashion was overheard to comment.

    “Oh, everyone is, my dear,” her female companion responded.  “It’s quite the latest thing.  I intend to redo my entire parlor in Oriental furniture.”

    “Why, that’s what I was thinking,” the first lady announced.

    As the two waltzed off to examine the Japanese furniture, Joe turned to his brother, taking off his hat and crimping his curls with one hand while saying in a high-pitched voice, “Oh, Adam, we simply must take home something from Japan”—he broke into his typically infectious giggle—“but not this vase, okay, brother?  It’ll break even your bank account!”  He pointed to one of the largest bronzes, tagged at two thousand dollars.

    “Will you behave?” Adam chided with a chuckle.  “Our foreign guests will think you’re laughing at them.  As a matter of fact, I happen to consider that price rather low when you realize that it involved an equivalent of twenty-two hundred and fifty hours of steady labor.”

    Joe whistled.  “You get that from the catalog?”

    “Yes, of course,” Adam said.  “It wouldn’t hurt, you know, if you read about the areas we plan to see the night before, as I do.”

    “How could I when you don’t ever tell me what we’re gonna do the next day?” Joe snorted.

    Adam laughed, despite his recent admonition to his young brother.  “Yes, I suppose that could pose a difficulty, but you did know we’d be coming back here today, little brother.”

    Joe conceded the point with a shrug and turned to look at two more high-priced vases, a pair with a background of delicate blue and white, decorated with golden dragons and graceful landscapes.  “If you are going to take home something Japanese, Adam, I’d like these.”

    Adam laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder.  “Surely you jest.  Hop Sing would have my head if I brought home Japanese art.  He would consider it an open insult.”

    Joe tittered.  “Oh, yeah!  You got a point there, and we’re going to China next, aren’t we?”

    Adam nodded.  “The Centennial version of it, yes.”  His lips began to twitch.  “Just because you’re thinking of Hop Sing doesn’t mean you have to use his favorite threat!”

    The brothers shared a restrained laugh over the memories of Hop Sing’s oft-voiced threat to return to China, a threat which could be expected whenever anyone did anything that didn’t suit him.  “When I was a kid, it really scared me,” Joe shared softly.  “I’d lost Mama, and you and Pa and Hoss were away from the house most of the time, and I didn’t think I could stand it if I lost Hop Sing, too.”

    Adam looked back in surprise, for Joe had never shared that childhood fear, at least not with him, nor, he suspected, with Pa or Hoss.  “Sorry, kid.  We should have told you it was all idle talk.”

    “Yeah, you should have!” Joe said reproachfully.  “You always acted like you took it serious, giving in to just what he wanted and all.  Why wouldn’t I think he meant it?”

    Adam pushed a chestnut curl from Joe’s forehead.  “Poor baby,” he cooed with a chuckle, mildly irritated by the suggestion that he’d done wrong by failing to read the mind of a child of four or five.

    Joe stepped back with a scowl.  “Cut that out,” he growled as he put his hat back on to keep his curls safe from his brother’s prying fingers. Should’ve known better than to tell him my feelings!  When has he ever cared what I feel?  He was silent as he and Adam continued their tour of Japanese ceramics, including the green or scarlet and gold pieces from Kaga, the Banko ware with its characteristic brown or purple color worked through to the inside and droll figures from Tokyo, really caricatures of different classes of Japanese society.

    The brothers came next to a huge exhibit of lacquered ware, everything from tiny trays to large, costly cabinets, the jewel of the group a 250-year-old cabinet, available for purchase to anyone having five thousand dollars.  The vases of ivory tusks with lacquered decoration were expensive, as well, but Little Joe gathered up a dozen of the trays, which were priced at a mere fifty cents apiece.

    “Not for Hop Sing, I hope,” Adam said, hoping to break the silence by bringing up the joke they’d shared earlier.

    “‘Course not,” Joe scoffed.  “I want something better for him.  These are just for some friends.”

    “Oh.  Girls,” Adam guessed with a smile.

    “Yeah, girls,” Joe muttered grumpily.  “I have a lot, you know.”

    “Oh, I know,” Adam chuckled.  “Believe me, I know how broadly you spread your affections around, little brother.”  He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Joe, if I’ve done something to offend you . . .”

    Joe responded with his most Adam-like nonchalant shrug.  “Aw, forget it, Adam; it’s nothing.”

    “Brighten up a bit and I might believe you,” Adam said softly.

    Joe returned a weak smile.  “That better?”

    “Some.  Are you getting tired . . . or hungry?”

    Joe nodded, willing to let his older brother think that the only thing bothering him was an empty belly.  “You weren’t planning to eat this soon, though, were you?”

    “I planned to finish here and see the Chinese exhibits before taking a break,” Adam admitted, “but if you’re really . . .”

    “No, no,” Joe insisted quickly.  “I’d rather see China first, maybe find something real nice for Hop Sing.”

    “Sure,” Adam agreed, “he’d appreciate something from his native country, but you don’t have to decide today, Joe.  When we’re completely finished with all the buildings, we’ll spend a day just shopping before we go home.  I should have explained that; it’s the reason I keep urging you to wait before buying.”

    “Okay, that helps,” Joe said, “but I want these trays anyway.  The girls will like them.  Everybody wants something from Japan, you know; you hear it all over.”

    “Everybody except Hop Sing.”  Adam grinned, draping an arm across the boy’s slender shoulders and turning him toward the silk screens mounted on light frames and decorated with scenes of the daily life of common people.  The outlines of the figures and the landscapes were painted, while the costumes, faces, animals and houses were embroidered on the silk.  Beautiful works, but the boys gave them only a cursory examination, preferring, due to Hop Sing’s influence, to spend more time seeing the Chinese version of similar articles.

    As was becoming habitual, their tour of the country ended with a perusal of the educational exhibits.  Joe groaned as yet another nation dangled the distasteful topic before his eyes, but he did find the unique characters and backwards way of writing of greater interest than specimens he’d seen in the pavilions of other countries.  Taking pity—or maybe because he couldn’t read the papers, either—Adam spent far less time than usual in the Japanese educational department, and the brothers took off for next-door China, each excited to see what he might find that would please the cook to whom both were devoted.

    Immediately to the west, the enclosed Chinese pavilion was less than half the size of the Japanese one.  The entrance was a copy of the portal to a celestial pagoda and was painted in bright hues of vermilion, indigo and green.  Carvings of curled-up dragons, fierce and ugly enough to haunt any small boy’s nightmares, ornamented the entrance, and every projection of its curved roof ended in an animal shape.  Above it were Chinese characters, which Adam said meant “The Chinese Empire.”

    “You read Chinese, too?” Joe gasped.

    Adam chuckled.  “No, I read the catalog.”

    Joe grinned, obviously relieved that there was some end to his older brother’s vast knowledge.

    Near the entrance stood a row of silk screens in elaborately carved frames, which drew Joe’s immediate interest, until he saw the price tags.  Some were painted in brilliant colors and all took their subject matter from animal life.  A couple displayed undersea scenes, in which the translucence of the water had been caught in a manner true to life.  “Could you afford something like this for him?” Joe asked shyly.  “I can’t, but they would fit perfect in Hop Sing’s room.”

    “How would you know?” Adam inquired with a jesting smile.  “Hop Sing doesn’t let anyone in there—at least not that I’ve heard—and you had better not have been sneaking in behind his back or Pa will have your hide.”

    “It’s been a long time,” Joe admitted, “but Hop Sing used to let me take naps in there when I was real little ‘cause he knew how much I hated being upstairs by myself.”

    “I didn’t know,” Adam murmured.

    Joe shrugged.  “Why should you?  I was past the nap-taking stage by the time you came home from college.”

    That wasn’t what Adam had meant, but he didn’t correct the misimpression.  What had surprised him, more than Joe’s having taken naps in Hop Sing’s bed, was the revelation that he had done so because of a dread of being alone.  Makes sense when you think about it, Adam decided. He’s such a sociable kid that he would want people around, even while he slept.   Letting his mind travel back, Adam recalled times when his youngest brother had been ill or hurt and had begged to be allowed downstairs.  Adam had always assumed that the kid was rebelling against the enforced inactivity of Doc Martin’s orders.  Maybe all he wanted was company, he mused. Wonder if Pa knows; wonder if that’s why he caves in so easily to Joe’s wheedling to get out of bed before he should.

    “So, how about it?” Joe pressed.  “You are gonna get him something, aren’t you?”

    “Huh?”  With a shake of his head, Adam pulled his thoughts back to the present.  “Why, yes, of course, I’ll be taking something back to Hop Sing, just like the rest of the family.  The screens cost a little more than I’d planned to spend, but if you think he’d really like one, I’ll keep it in mind.”

    “One of the underwater ones,” Joe suggested.  “He’ll like them best.”

    “Because you do?” Adam chuckled.

    “Because I know him better than you,” Joe insisted, smiling when Adam nodded in acceptance.

    Walking further in, the brothers came to a huge, intricately carved wooden bed.  “Don’t even think about it,” Adam said, in awe.

    “No,” Joe scoffed.  “It’s too big for Hop Sing’s room.”

    “Thank goodness,” Adam chuckled.  “It’s too big for my wallet, too!”

    “I didn’t think anything was,” Joe muttered.

    To Adam, he sounded serious.  The kid really must think my pockets are deep!  Maybe that’s why he pays so little attention to the price of his meals.

    After viewing the porcelain and pottery, he and his brother took a quick look at the lacquered work.  “Not as good as the Japanese,” Adam observed.

    “You want to be the one to tell Hop Sing that?” Joe inquired with a smirk.

    “Credit me with a little sense, will you?” Adam retorted dryly.

    Joe held his fingers about an inch apart.  “Sure, big brother, just about that much.”

    Adam cuffed him by the neck and pulled him toward the case of carved ivory, where    Joe stared in morbid fascination at the carving of a human skull, not two inches high, with a snake coiled on its head.

    “Good workmanship,” Adam commented.

    “If you can get past what it is,” Joe said, swallowing as if choking down a mouthful of bile.

    “Too close to dinner, eh?” Adam suggested with a sympathetic smile.

    “Sunup would be too close to dinner for that!” Joe declared.  “Let’s look at something else, Adam.”

    “Maybe-so you like this mo’ bettah?” suggested a Chinese attendant, extending a ball of carved ivory, five inches in diameter.

    Joe’s eyes lighted, like those of a child with a new toy on Christmas morning.  “Can I?” he asked, holding out his hand before Adam could stop him.

    The little man in blue silk pants and tunic bowed and handed the small ball to Joe, smiling as the enchanted boy turned it over and over to see the intricate carvings of cities, men, flowers and trees that covered every inch of the exterior.  “Now look inside,” the Chinaman urged.

    Joe peered into the hole the man indicated and gasped.  “Oh, wow!  Adam, you gotta see this.”

    Curious, Adam took the ivory ball and looked into one of several other holes scattered over the surface.  Only his greater emotional control kept him from also gasping at the beauty within, for inside the ball was another, similarly carved, and inside that another, still smaller, and another and another, more than he could count.  “How many in all?” he asked, returning the ball to the attendant.

    “Twenty-three,” the Chinaman replied, “all from one piece ivory.  Velly fine work.  You like buy, maybe-so?”

    “Maybe so,” Adam agreed, “but not today.  I must think first.”

    “Ah, you wise like Confucius,” the man said, “but wise man also know delay may lead to disappointment.”

    Adam bowed.  “That is true; I will remember.  Thank you for showing us this beautiful object.”

    Though disappointed not to make the sale, the Chinaman bowed politely.

    “You thinkin’ about that for Hop Sing?” Joe asked once they were out of earshot.  “The screen’s are nicer, I think, but this would be cheaper.”

    “I’m not sure.  Clyde Thomas might appreciate a beautiful carving like that, too,” Adam said.

    “Yeah, he would.”  Joe fell silent after that, his thoughts growing gloomy.  He’d thought the little Swiss chalet was such a perfect gift for that old friend of the family, but Adam, with his greater resources, seemed determined to outshine him with every gift he bought.  Joe swallowed down the hurt.  There just wasn’t any help for it, given the difference in their bankrolls, and he didn’t want to see Pa or Hoss or any of their friends deprived of a fine present from Adam, even if it did make his own look like a piece of junk.

    Adam stopped before a display of porcelain tiles, painted with Chinese figures.  “This might be something you could afford for Hop Sing.”

    Joe’s eyes brightened.  “Yeah, that might do.  I could even manage a set of three, I’ll bet, and they’d look nice on his wall.  Gonna give it some thought, though, since you said we could come back.”

    “Smart boy,” Adam praised with a pat on the cheek.

    “Adam,” Joe chided, pulling away from the gesture more appropriate to a child than a man, in his opinion.

    Sniggering with his mouth closed, Adam walked over to a tall pagoda holding a wide variety of Chinese products: cloth, shoes, stockings, hats, leather trunks, samples of native paper, musical instruments and dozens of examples of China’s natural resources and manufactures.  There were, to Joe’s unending gratitude, no educational exhibits, so Adam contented himself with a final look at the offices of the Chinese Commission, a colorful structure of carved and gilded woodwork, whose chief attraction was its panels of scarlet silk painted with scenes from Chinese life.

    Though they hadn’t reached the western end of the building, Adam knew that neither he nor Joe could wait that long before eating.  After all, five more countries were exhibiting on that side of the aisle alone, with another quarter of the building still to be viewed on the opposite side.  So, though it meant extra steps, Adam decreed that it was time to eat and he got no argument from his younger brother.

    Seated in the Café Leland at the southern end of the central transept, they put in their orders, both choosing a cold platter because of the heat of the day.  “I can’t believe we’ve spent a day and a half in this building, and there’s still so much we haven’t seen,” Joe said between mouthfuls of ham sandwich.

    Adam stifled an urge to rebuke the boy for talking with his mouth full.  It was past their normal dinner hour, so he felt obligated to cut the obviously starving kid some slack.  “I know it’s tiring to see so much so quickly, Joe, but it’s that or miss something, given the length of time Pa said we could be away from home.”

    “Well, we could always skip going to Yale, instead, if you wanted to spend more time here,” Joe suggested.

    Catching the sassy sparkle in his brother’s eye, Adam responded with a wry smile.  “Maybe I could skip Commencement, but you, my boy, are obligated to visit Yale.  Part of the price tag for the trip, remember?”

    Joe just grinned.  “Would you trust me to go there on my own?”

    Adam nearly choked on a bit of beef.  “Not for a minute, kid!  You’d probably take off for New York City—and catch a boat for France.”

    Joe’s expression was suddenly serious.  “No, I wouldn’t want to be away from the Ponderosa that long.  Anyway, I know what that Commencement means to you; I was just joshing about skipping it.”

     “I know that,” Adam responded warmly.  “Getting homesick, kid?”

    “Kind of,” Joe said, reluctant to admit what he considered a weakness.  “I’ve never been away from home as long as we’re going to be on this trip.  I don’t think I could stand it for four years, Adam.”

    Adam cut a bite from his slice of cantaloupe.  “You’d get used to it, as I did.”

    Joe sliced his fork through a mound of potato salad.  “You mean you really missed us?  I thought . . .”

    “What?” Adam asked, looking up.

    “Never mind,” Joe muttered, quickly popping a bite of potato salad into his mouth.

    Adam reached across the round table to lay his hand on Joe’s.  “I missed you, kid,” he said softly.

    Joe shook his head, not in denial, but as though disappointed in his childish thoughts of long ago.  “Guess I was a kid then, but I just didn’t understand.”

    “I know,” Adam said with regret, “and I didn’t know how to make you understand, not at four years old.  I’ve always been sorry about that.  I’ve thought, maybe, it created a lot of resentment in you.”

    “It did,” Joe whispered.

    Again Adam’s hand stretched across the table.  “Joe—”

    Joe jerked his hand back.  “Not here, Adam, for the love of mercy!”

    Understanding that Joe was concerned about showing emotion in public, Adam settled back in his chair, telling himself that he would continue the conversation later.  Obviously, things needed to be said, but they needed to be said in private, for his own sake as much as Joe’s.  In a forcibly bright tone he began to list the countries whose exhibits they had not yet seen.

    “Oh, my aching feet!” Joe moaned, but he was smiling again.  “Don’t tell them how much more they have to travel.  They feel like they’ve been all over the world already!”

    Taking pity, Adam quickly made a change of plans.  “Tell you what, we’ll just take care of Great Britain, Ireland and the colonies this afternoon and come back Saturday afternoon to finish the building.”

    “Oh, Adam, you do have a heart!” Joe cried.

    “Well, of course, I do . . . and feet as tired as yours,” Adam chuckled.  “Besides, we have an extra stop to make this afternoon, so we probably couldn’t finish today if we tried.”

    “Extra stop?  Where?”

    “Wait and see,” Adam said and laughed when Joe groaned at being kept in the dark yet again.  When they had both finished eating, Adam led the way up the central transept to the north door and exited the building.  Skirting around Memorial Hall and the Art Annex behind it, he stopped before a frame cottage on the south slope of Lansdowne Valley.

    “Singer Sewing Machine?” Joe queried, and then his eyes lighted with understanding.  “That’s where she works, the lady we helped this morning.”

    Adam nodded.  “That’s right.  She insisted I bring you here this afternoon.  Evidently, she wants you to have a remembrance of her.  She assured me it wasn’t anything costly, but if it is, I expect you to refuse it.”

    Joe gave his head a perturbed shake.  “Adam, you don’t have to tell me every little thing.  Pa’s done a fairly decent job of raising me.”

    Adam coughed to cover his shock at the suggestion that he was criticizing their father.  “Well, I know that.  Just—just see to it you do as you’ve been taught.”

    They went inside, and Adam asked where he might find Mrs. Atkinson.  Directed to a machine not far away, he and Joe walked over and were warmly welcomed by the lady from the streetcar.  “I have something for you,” Mrs. Atkinson said.

    “Yes, ma’am, my brother told me, but you really didn’t have to do that,” Joe insisted.

    “Just a sample of my work,” she said, handing him a man’s handkerchief.  “And I have one for you, as well,” she added as she held another out toward Adam.

    Joe grinned at the monogram embroidered by machine on his handkerchief.  A large “C” was scrolled in one corner, surrounded by smaller letters, “J” on one side and “F” on the other.  “It’s my initials,” he said, “but how did you know what they were?”

    “Oh, I have very good ears,” she laughed, and Joe did, too, when he realized that she had figured out his initials when Adam had hollered his full name on the horse car.  Turning to Adam, she added almost apologetically, “I didn’t know whether you had a middle initial, but I assumed the last name would be the same.”

    Looking up from the diagonally linked “A” and “C” in the corner of his handkerchief, Adam smiled.  “It is, but these are more than the mere tokens you told me you wished to present.”

“Not really.  I hand out samples like this all day long, gentlemen,” Mrs. Atkinson assured them, failing to add that the sample monograms were not normally stitched on handkerchiefs of such fine linen.

“Nonetheless, thank you for the time and effort you put into these beautiful remembrances.  We will carry them with pride,” Adam said.

    “We surely will, ma’am,” Joe added quickly, lest Adam again think him remiss in manners.

    “But you, my young knight, must agree to carry one more thing for me,” the lady said with a smile as she slipped her hand into her pocket.  “A knight often wore the favor of his chosen lady, and while I know that I am too old to be the choice of such a handsome young knight, I hope you will wear my favor, nonetheless.”  She laid a watch fob, made of braided Centennial ribbon, in his hand.  “The strap I wore this morning was too badly damaged to mend, but I salvaged enough material to make a smaller one, more fitting for a man.”

    “I love it,” Joe said and impulsively thanked her with a quick kiss on the cheek.

    “Don’t scold,” she told Adam, for she could see the look of rebuke in his eyes, adding with a light laugh, “Queen Guinevere commands it.”  She laid her hand against Joe’s smooth cheek.  “You’re a dear boy; never change.”

    Joe blushed.  “Thank you, ma’am.”  He ducked his head, fumbling for his watch.

    While Joe was fastening it to the colorful new fob, Mrs. Atkinson turned to Adam.  “May I show you around this pavilion?  We have sixty-one different machines in operation, and I’d be happy to show them to you.”

    “Thank you, but we really don’t have much time to spare today,” Adam said, “and being bachelors, we wouldn’t have any real use for a sewing machine.”

    “No, I suppose not,” she said.  “However, if your mother or a lady friend is in the city with you, do tell her to register in our reception parlor.  The company is giving away our two millionth machine to one of our lady visitors.”

    “We’re alone, I’m afraid,” Adam said, “and we had best get back to our tour of the Main Building.  Ready, Joe?”

    Still admiring his new fabric fob, Joe nodded and slipped his watch into its pocket.  “Thanks again, ma’am,” he said.

    “No, young man, thank you, for your brave actions of this morning,” she insisted.  “Thank you both.”

    “Our pleasure, your majesty,” Adam said, and he bowed as Joe had that morning.

    Their spirits refreshed by the pleasant interlude, the two brothers walked side by side back to the Main Exhibition Hall and entered again by the same door through which they had left.  They began their afternoon tour at the intersection of the central transept with the main aisle, for Great Britain’s exhibits began on its northwest corner.  Unenclosed, the national origin of the rows of simple black showcases with gilt moldings was designated solely by a red banner, with white letters, hanging from the roof.  At the entrance the highlight of the British exhibits, silver and plated ware by the silversmiths of Birmingham, had been arranged.

    “Hang onto your heart, little brother, when you check the price on this one,” Adam teased, pointing to the richly enameled Helicon vase.

    “Thirty thousand,” Joe croaked.  There was no denying that the vase was a work of art, with two classical semi-nude figures reclining gracefully against its base, while two small angels sat at their feet, perhaps to hear the music from their lyres.  In Joe’s opinion, however, nothing you put on a table just to look at could possibly be worth thirty thousand dollars.  Think of the cattle we could buy with that!  He didn’t say anything aloud, however, thinking that Adam would probably consider him an uncultured, money-grubbing boor with no understanding of the proper value of art.

    He really hadn’t needed to speak his thoughts, though, for Adam read them easily in his emotive face.  Secretly agreeing with Joe’s assessment of spending that kind of money on tableware, he nonetheless delighted in seeing such beautifully crafted pieces and wanted to instill in his younger brother a kindred appreciation.  Case by case, they viewed the porcelain, pottery and majolica, which rivaled, without surpassing, the French examples.

    Adam stopped to look longer at a couple of vases featuring Cupid and Venus.  One showed the curly-haired cherub turning the wheel of fortune for the Goddess of Love, while the other portrayed him presenting a weeping Venus with a bleeding heart.  Unable to resist the temptation, Adam swept off Joe’s straw hat to run his fingers through the curls of the copy of Cupid standing beside him.  “Better not stand too close, little buddy,” he teased, “or people will swear you sat as model for these and start running from you and your little arrows.”

    Joe responded by thrusting a derisive tongue at his annoying older brother.

    Adam laughed.  “Well, that’s one way to shed that cherubic image!”

    Joe slumped forward, shaking his head in self-disgust for having given Adam more ammunition.  Sometimes there just wasn’t any way to escape big brother’s sharp wit.  The hearty clap he felt on his back made him look up, and Adam’s warm smile as he returned the hat brought one in response. Might as well get used to it; ain’t never gonna get old enough for him to quit teasing—nor Hoss, neither.

    “Let’s look at the pottery next,” Adam suggested, still chuckling.  “One of the other guests at Bert’s the other night said it’s the best display of any country here.”

    “Okay, I’m all for looking at the best,” Joe agreed readily.  Sure hope it ain’t more Cupids—or I’ll really have to act up ‘to shed that cherubic image! ’

    The terra cotta works exhibited by Galloway and Graff were, indeed, populated with figures from Greek mythology, but not by any jest-provoking, curly-headed tykes, as far as Joe could see.  Instead, powerful images of men and women adorned the vases, and Joe was particularly drawn to a couple of small statues, one of the huntress Diana and a deer and another of Psyche, whose lovely female form Joe could have spent the entire afternoon gazing upon in abject worship.  She stood in a pensive pose, index finger touching her lips as her head leaned forward in thought.  A set of fairy-light wings rose from her back, and her only other adornment was a loose drape knotted low across her hips and falling to her bare feet.  Seeing that his little brother’s attention appeared to be fixed somewhere near Psyche’s naval, Adam coughed loudly and reminded Joe that the British exhibit was a huge one and they had much left to see.

    With a sigh Joe smiled a fond farewell to the lovely lady and obediently followed Adam to a display of fine glassware with an exceptional crystal chandelier, the finest in the building, suspended above it.  Adam seemed to give particular attention to the glassware and finally told Joe that he was considering buying some for the ranch, “especially for when we entertain.  These would attract a lot of attention, don’t you think?”

    “Yeah, but I thought you liked those ruby ones from Austria-Hungary,” Joe responded.

    Adam cocked his head to look closely at his brother.  “You like them better, buddy?”

    Joe again seemed surprised that his brother really wanted his opinion.  “Yeah, I do, Adam,” he said earnestly.  “They were beautiful.”

    Adam’s head bobbed slowly up and down.  “Well, I guess I’d better do some more thinking before I buy because it’s a hard choice,” he said finally.

    “You could buy both,” Joe suggested with childlike candor.

    Adam laughed.  “Pa didn’t give me that much leeway, boy!  No, I’ll have to make a decision, and I appreciate your help in making it.”

    Truly flattered, Joe smiled.  “Sure, anytime, brother.”

    Throwing an arm about the boy’s shoulders, Adam directed him toward the furniture display, whose chief attraction was the collection of brass beds.  “They’re nice enough, I guess,” Joe commented, “but I prefer wood.”

    “I probably do, too,” Adam admitted, “although I hear this is becoming quite popular.”

    “Amazing,” Joe snickered.  “It’s not even Japanese.”

    As they approached a tent with purple velvet hangings and a scroll above the entrance announcing it as the home of the Royal School of Art and Needlework, Joe protested, “Oh, Adam, you’re not serious.”

    “Just a quick look,” Adam consoled him.  “I hear there’s a piece by Princess Christian.”

    Obviously unimpressed by royalty, Joe shook his head.  “Boring is boring, no matter who does it.”

    Adam gave him a conspiratorial wink.  “Well, it’s the kind of exhibit that will attract a lot of girls, Joe.”

    Suddenly, a broad grin transformed Joe’s drooping countenance.  “What are we waiting for then, brother?  Let’s see that royal gal’s stitchery, shall we?”  Taking Adam’s arm, he practically dragged his older brother into the tent.  Inside, the screen worked by Princess Christian drew much attention from the largely female spectators, but both Joe and Adam thought the three-leaved screen by Miss Gemmel more effective.  Light green leaves and flowers, with white fruit blossoms on two panels and wild roses on the third, had been embroidered in shimmering silk on a dark green background.  Pretty as the piece was, though, it wasn’t the kind of thing men cared for, and there weren’t enough pretty girls flocking around to make Joe want to stay inside that stuffy tent for long.  Adam kept his promise and soon delivered both his brother and himself from the claustrophobic closeness of a tent full of needlework.

    Back at the main aisle, the Cartwright brothers entered another department of little interest to men, with its cases of cotton and woolen goods.  The best displays of textiles were the linens from Ireland, exhibited nearby.  “We really need a fresh stock,” Adam declared, “and since this is undoubtedly the finest in the world, I’m going to go ahead and place an order now.”

    “Okay if I take a look at that jewelry while you do that?” Joe asked.

    “Sure, just don’t take off anywhere else,” Adam warned.

    “Yes, Pa, I’ll be a good boy,” Joe tossed back in the voice of a tiny child.

    Adam shook his head.  And if I treat him like a child, I get my head bit off—or worse, an afternoon of stony silence!  He completed his order quickly and joined Joe at a case of jewelry made from precious stones found in Scotland.  The jeweler from Edinburgh was only too happy to show the pieces he thought might appeal to American gentlemen, though Adam found the highland ornaments more interesting, from a cultural standpoint.  Another jeweler, this one from Belfast, displayed jewelry made from Irish bog oak, which was also unlike any the men from the Ponderosa had seen elsewhere in the hall.

    Uh-oh , Joe thought when he saw the exhibit of submarine cables by the Telegraph Construction and Maintenance Company.  There’ll be no tearing Adam away from this one.  Fortunately, there was a display of cutlery, tools and hardware from London, Sheffield and Birmingham nearby, so the time passed quickly for the younger half of the pair.

    In alcoves along the north wall, the Cartwright brothers found carpets from Axminster, Wilton and India, the larger ones hung against the wall.  “Hey, if you’re still thinking about a carpet for Pa’s bedroom, I like this one,” Joe said, indicating a patterned floor covering from Axminster.

“That color would look well in his room,” Adam agreed, but decided to wait before making a final decision.  He and Joe made their way down the wall, coming next to the pavilion of book publishers at the west end of the space allotted to Great Britain and Ireland.  Here, Messrs. Bradbury, Agnew and Company of London, publishers of Punch and the British Encyclopedia, had erected a comely pavilion.  Mr. Punch himself stood at the entrance, bowing in welcome to all visitors.  Little Joe stopped to listen and laugh at the antics of the red-nosed glove puppet with the rascally attitude, while Adam hurried inside to the greater attraction of beautifully bound books.

    “Hey, Mr. Punch, anything worth reading in there?” Joe asked in merry jest.

    The little puppet whipped his slapstick toward the audience and would have knocked off Joe’s hat had the boy not ducked just in time.  “Take that, you cheeky Yank,” Mr. Punch spewed forth in apparent rage.  “Anything worth reading, indeed!  Why, any British child could tell you that the magazine inspired by yours truly is the finest in the world.  Inside with you, you Yankee lout, and improve that befuddled brain of yours with a good British book!  In your case, it might take several.”

    Joe joined the rest of the audience in laughter and quickly assured Mr. Punch he would follow that advice.  Scampering inside, he found his brother, predictably, standing in awe before a table of books.  Tsk, tsk, older brother.  Mr. Punch won’t think much of you reading Shakespeare, instead of ‘the finest magazine in the world,’ he joked to himself.

    Glancing up, Adam noticed that his younger brother had finally joined him.  “Oh, these are marvelous editions,” he said as he leafed through a copy of one of the immortal bard’s plays.  “Just look at the quality, Joe.”

    Joe peeked at the price tag.  High, of course, but he just might be able to swing it, as an extra gift for Adam.  Happening to see his younger brother glancing at the price, Adam decided then and there that he would have to sneak back later to get the boy a volume or two.  After all, Joe’d said he had some interest in Shakespeare, and if the kid continued to be as adamantly opposed to higher education as he’d been thus far, the best thing his big brother could do was put a little good literature in his path.

    The educational exhibits were next, but not even Adam spent much time viewing them.  The small exhibit did little justice to Britain’s contribution to education, and her great universities were not even represented.  Little Joe was delighted with how quickly they left these behind for the more intriguing display by the London Illustrated News and London Graphic.

    The London Graphic exemplified the printing of illustrations with a collection of original sketches and complete drawings of scenes and incidents in the Franco-German War, and a series of carved blocks showed the different stages in the process of wood engraving.  Joe studied the battle scenes intently, wondering if they resembled those in which his brother had participated during the American conflict fifteen years before.  He didn’t dare ask, however, for Adam had turned away after giving the drawings only a cursory look, seeming to be totally absorbed in a small gas-operated press nearby, which was publishing illuminated circulars of the firm.  It was too simple a machine to merit that much attention, so Joe knew immediately that his brother was only doing it to avoid the other option.  “There’s some stained glass over there that’s a lot nicer than those,” Joe suggested softly.

    Adam looked up, surprised that Joe would express interest in stained glass.  What he saw melted his heart.  Those perceptive green eyes were seeing straight through his anguished soul, and Adam instantly knew that Joe didn’t really care anything about stained glass; the kid was simply offering him a chance to escape gracefully from scenes that were upsetting to him.  Sometimes that little brother of his could be such a sweet kid that Adam wanted to reach out and pull him into a bear hug, as Hoss so easily did.  Adam never gave in to the urge, though.  For some reason he didn’t care to analyze, he just couldn’t, and it was no different today.  “Sure, Joe, you’re right; we should be moving on.”

    They “moved on” to the exhibits from India, although, in truth, most of them had come from the India Museum in London, rather than directly from the colony.  Specimens of everything the natives of India ate, wore or used was displayed, including jeweled weapons and fans inlaid with ivory and precious stones.  Boxes made of porcupine quills and sandalwood made Joe wish they were on sale, for he knew more than one person back home who would treasure such unique gifts.  There were only a few commercial exhibits, one of the best being the carved blackwood furniture from Bombay, with borders and details so intricately carved that some of them looked like black lace from a distance.  A survey of the photographs of India’s scenery and her native peoples brought the Cartwrights to the end of that colony’s exhibits, and they were ready to visit one closer to home.

    The Dominion of Canada, next to India, displayed exhibits from the provinces of Quebec, Ontario, Manitoba, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and British Columbia in neat, uniform cases of walnut.  After viewing cases of cotton and woolen goods, hosiery, boots, shoes and apparel, Adam and Joe looked at others full of hardware, sewing machines, drugs and chemicals, before finally coming to something both found of greater interest.  The models of the shipbuilders reminded them both once again of their father’s seafaring days, but Canada had so much on display that they didn’t spend much time going over the models in detail.

    Furniture from Toronto and Ontario, furs from the Hudson Bay Company and finely sculpted marble mantels from Montreal vied for their attention, but, oddly enough, even Joe was more drawn to the educational exhibits here.  The geological charts and maps had been attractively hung on the north wall, although Adam was quite certain that the suits of armor stationed as guards at the portal were the real magnets for his younger brother’s sudden interest in an educational display.  Anything to do with knights seemed to have special appeal to Joe today, for reasons perfectly apparent to his older brother.

    The geological department offered some interesting exhibits of ores and petroleum, including a lump of plumbago, declared to be the largest ever mined.  Since the chunk of graphite measured six feet by four feet, Adam and Joe could easily believe that statistic, and both considered the red granite from New Brunswick a beautiful stone for building.  Viewing the final case of beaded skins worn by the Indians of Canada, the brothers were ready to check out the displays of the next British colony.

    “Queensland,” Joe said, reading the banner above the next area.  “I don’t know where that is, Adam.”

    “Look at that huge map suspended from the ceiling, buddy,” Adam said.  “See?  There’s Queensland in northeast Australia, and you can see the location of the other divisions of the continent, as well.  Originally a part of New South Wales, Queensland has only been a separate colony since 1859, but I would have thought that Miss Jones would include it in your geography studies.”

    “Maybe she did,” Joe conceded with a shrug.  “Back then I didn’t see much point in learning about all those foreign places and their capitals.  Memorized what I had to for a test and then forgot it all, just as quick.  Other countries interest me some now, though, especially learning about them the way we are here at the Centennial.  Makes ‘em seem like real places, not just dots on a map.”

    That one remark made Adam feel that all his efforts in getting his little brother to Philadelphia and the frequent struggles to keep that active mind focused on profitable subjects had been repaid.  With a buoyant bounce in his step, Adam approached the exhibits from Queensland, determined to build upon his brother’s expressed desire to learn about the world outside Nevada.

    Queensland’s exhibits were in an enclosed apartment on the north side of the British space and opposite that of its former parent, New South Wales.  Black tablets suspended around the enclosure gave vital statistics about the mining, grazing, agriculture and geology of the country, with paintings and photographs of Queensland and its people displayed below.  A tall obelisk, covered with gilt and with a collection of gold-bearing quartz surrounding it, indicated the amount of gold exported from the area during the period from 1868 to 1875, over sixty-five tons in all, valued at thirty-five thousand dollars.  “Enough to make a single vase in good old Mother England,” Joe quipped.

    “That was silver,” Adam reminded him.  “Gold is costlier.”

    “Okay, half a vase,” Joe cackled.  “Or is it two?”

    “Try to behave yourself,” Adam urged, his own chuckles rendering the rebuke totally ineffective.  “It’s the craftsmanship, not strictly the amount of metal used, that determines the price.  Now, if you’ll notice, Queensland produces even more tin than it does gold and is, in fact, its principal source in the world.”

    “Fascinating,” Joe replied with an impudent grin.  “No, I mean it, very interesting,” he added quickly, fanning his hands protectively before his face when he saw Adam’s dark eyebrows pull together in a grim line.  “They must mine a lot of copper, too, seein’ as how they sent five tons here, just to show off.”

    Adam licked his lips.  “All right, I get the point; you’ve seen enough minerals.  Shall we look at the samples of native wood?  According to the catalog, there are twenty-two different varieties being displayed.”

    “Sure,” Joe said.  “I’m fond of wood.”

    Deciding to take the kid at his word, even though he had sounded flippant, Adam pointed out the various samples, what trees they came from and what products they were used for.  He was pleased to see that Little Joe really did seem to be paying close attention.

    Not quite as much, however, as the boy gave to the case of implements and clothing used to illustrate the dress and lifestyle of Australia’s aboriginal population.  Those held, for him, the same appeal that eastern Americans felt regarding the Native Americans of their own western states.  For Adam, the aboriginal exhibits afforded an opportunity to expound on what he considered unfair treatment of native peoples, both in his own country and in foreign lands.

    “You’re preaching to the choir, brother,” Joe pointed out.

    “Am I?” Adam demanded.  “Don’t be so cocky, boy; you’re too young to have seen much of what I’m talking about.”

    Joe immediately bristled at the inflammatory reference to his youth.  “I’ve seen enough!  If it was worse before, then I’m glad I didn’t see it!”

    Adam’s mood abruptly changed and he said softly, “So am I, little brother; so am I, but you’re not a child anymore, or so you frequently assert.  It’s time you opened your eyes to the wrongs around you that still need to be redressed—toward Indians and black citizens and the Chinese.”

     “Adam, I do see,” Joe insisted defensively.  “I just don’t know what I can about it, other than treat each man like I treat every other.”

    “Well, that’s a beginning, Joe,” Adam agreed, sensing that he had offended the boy, who had little personal prejudice, and wanting to correct that at once.  “In fact, it’s the best beginning, but we do have a long way to go, even in this country.”

    “Couldn’t we just enjoy the exhibits today and wait ‘til tomorrow to solve the problems of the world?” Joe pleaded.

    He sounded so world-weary and so child-like at the same time that Adam gasped out a coughing laugh.  “I guess so, little brother.  Sorry about the sermon.”

    “Hey, I’m used to it,” Joe struck back with a smile.  “I hear more sermons from you than from the minister back home.”

    Adam favored his brother with his characteristic Cheshire-cat smile.  “Well, he has less inspiration; he doesn’t have to see you every day!”

    “But you get to,” Joe fired back in quick repartee.  “Count your blessings, brother.”

    Adam pretended to choke on the blatant misrepresentation.  “Seeing you every day?  Since when is that a blessing?  Tidying up after your daily mischief is tantamount to cleaning the Aegean stables, my boy, and I’m no Hercules!”

    Admitting that he’d been bested at the war of words, Joe merely scowled and walked toward the next colonial exhibit, while Adam beamed in triumph of mythological proportions.  Within a week, however, he would wish that he could recall those jesting words and tell his little brother, instead, that seeing him every day was, indeed, the most cherished blessing of his life.  Unaware of the breakers lying ahead, Adam sailed blithely on toward the unforeseen storm looming on the horizon.

    The exhibits of New South Wales, which the Cartwrights visited next, were enclosed in a light, open framework that provided structure while permitting complete view of the displays from the aisle.  Walking inside, Adam chuckled as they were again presented with tables of minerals from the colony, much the same ones as those shown by Queensland.  Like the daughter colony, New South Wales displayed an obelisk revealing the amount of gold exported from 1851 to 1874.  Mining being undertaken sooner here, the value was even greater, $165,949,355, an impressive amount, even to men from mineral-rich Nevada.  Displays of copper, antimony and iron were also on view, along with specimens of kaolin and coal, from which a pyramid of black blocks had been constructed, along with a large block of kerosene shale, the source of the oil for lamps.  Timber, silk and wool completed the presentation of the colony’s resources, but by far the most interesting sight in the enclosure of New South Wales was the scenic photograph of Sydney, purportedly the largest ever taken.

    Tasmania came next in the Cartwrights’ exploration of the world, but they spent little time in the tiny pavilion, as the exhibits of the small island colony were devoted almost entirely to agricultural and mineral specimens.  Finishing Tasmania quickly, the Cartwright brothers entered the area assigned to the colony of Victoria, and Adam automatically reminded his brother of its geographic location.  “In the southeast corner of Australia,” Adam lectured, “with Melbourne as its capital, Victoria boasts good railroads and an educational system that is free, secular and compulsory.”

    Little Joe raised his hand.  “Please, Professor Cartwright, sir, will there be a test and will spelling count?”

    Adam pursed his lips.  “What answer have I given to that question before . . . or have you forgotten that as quickly as you did Miss Jones’ geography lessons?”

    Joe sighed and quoted back in singsong, “‘All of life is a test,’ but do you really expect me to remember all this?  Adam, my mind’s a jumble of geography and minerals and who makes the most what.  It’s an awful lot to take in all at once.”

    Adam gave him a sympathetic nod.  “I know, and I don’t expect you to remember everything.  Just try to get a general impression of what each country is like.  You can always look up the facts and figures later, if you’re interested.”

    “Okay, I can live with that,” Joe sighed in relief.  “Can we see those pictures over there, then?  That kind of thing helps me more than anything else to know what the country is like.”

    “Sure,” Adam agreed, turning toward the wall of photographs and paintings hung around the walls of the enclosure.  “I’ve read that the Australian climate is the best in the world for photography.”

    “I don’t know about that,” Joe replied, “but they’ve sure got some great scenery for it!”

    In addition, Victoria featured a fantastic array of minerals, including enormous nuggets of gold and a dazzling collection of gems and precious stones.  Crystal diamonds, blue sapphires, Oriental emeralds, rubies, aquamarine, topaz, spinel, beryl, opal, garnet and tourmaline splashed a riot of color inside the glass showcases.   The rest of the colony’s offerings, however, were more mundane displays of manufactured and agricultural products, along with an exhibit of the educational system and the work of Victoria’s penal institutions.  These took only a short time to peruse, so the Cartwright brothers were soon exploring another part of the continent.

    South Australia, according to Adam, lay west of Queensland and New South Wales, with about a quarter of the population of the latter.  “The chief exports are wool, wheat and copper, and all those are exhibited here,” Adam expanded.

    “I’ve seen wool, wheat and copper,” Joe complained.  “Theirs can’t look much different.”

    “No, they don’t,” Adam conceded with a chuckle.  “Well, since you prefer pictures, let’s start with those.  Here’s a nice photo of the capital, Adelaide.”

    Smiling in appreciation, Little Joe looked at the pictures and with that as reference felt prepared to face the other exhibits, which, as it turned out, weren’t much different from those of the other parts of Australia.

    New Zealand presented the final exhibits from that part of the world, and fortunately for Joe, its location was outlined on the same map as Australia.  “It’s made up of three main islands,” Adam commented, pointing to them on the map, “North, South and Stewart, with some smaller ones neighboring those.”

    “Yeah, I see that,” Joe said.  “Doesn’t look like they sent much.”

    “No, not much,” Adam admitted.  “We won’t be here long.”  He led Joe first to the scenic paintings and photographs, then to the usual display of minerals.  In the case of New Zealand, those included copper, lead, zinc, manganese, iron and coal, and there was little else to see except an exhibit of Maori weapons and implements.

    Leaving the South Pacific, the Cartwrights next encountered exhibits from the British colonies of Africa, beginning with the Cape of Good Hope.  While this, too, was a small exhibit, Joe’s eyes lighted with new interest when he saw the racks of antlers hung on the walls of the enclosure, the animal skins and the stuffed birds and animals of the Cape.  The usual photographs and mineral displays were on hand, but so were more exotic exhibits, like native weapons, clothing and jewelry.  Of course, the necklace made from the extremities of human fingers and toes, nails still attached, was a trifle too exotic, and Joe quickly turned away in favor of four tiered shelves of wines and brandies.  A fellow could use a stiff drink after seeing that! he concluded.

    The exhibit from the Gold Coast was also small, but well organized.  The display of gold dust, of course, was too familiar to hold any interest for either of the Cartwrights, but both looked favorably on the native ornaments made from the precious metal.  Other curiosities of tribal life absorbed their attention, as well, from commonplace household implements as simple as a ladle to religious idols of the tribes of the region.  Adam gave particular notice to the musical instruments, and even Joe was amazed by the variety of drums on display, some worn around the neck, some carried under the arm and one so large a man would have to stand up to play it.  There was even a drum made from a large gourd, about twenty inches in diameter, which was played with sticks of stiff rhinoceros hide.

    “Great Britain sure has a lot of colonies,” Joe commented as he and Adam moved toward the small pavilion housing exhibits from Jamaica.

    “Well, you know the saying, ‘The sun never sets on the Union Jack,’” Adam said.

    “Yeah,” Joe replied with a grin.  “That much I do remember from good old Miss Jones.”

    “Five more small pavilions and we’re done for the day,” Adam promised.  “No need to walk our legs off.”

    “Mine are already walked off, big brother,” Joe said.  “Wouldn’t wanna give me a piggyback ride, would you?”

    “No, I remember how hard you used to kick the ‘piggy,’” Adam observed drolly.

    “Piggy was too pokey,” Joe teased and scampered out of reach of Adam’s long, swinging arm.

    Jamaica’s exhibits proved to be exclusively devoted to her natural resources and products made from them, including, of course, rum.  Sugar was prominently displayed, along with coffee, cotton, medicinal barks, hemp and native woods.  The island colonies of the Bermudas and the Bahamas presented similar exhibits, including intricate works of art made from shells and corals and palm leaf baskets, mats and fans.  Tough fibers of native woods and agricultural products such as cotton and tobacco completed the exhibits, and when the Cartwright brothers visited the pavilions of Trinidad and British Guiana, they found much the same emphasis on natural resources.

    Totally exhausted, Adam and Joe dragged their way to the streetcar stop and were enormously grateful to find two seats, although they weren’t together.  They returned to the Washington Hotel, had a light supper and retired to their suite, too tired to think about going out for the evening.  Adam stretched out on the settee with a good book, while Joe began a letter to Hop Sing, describing the Chinese pavilion.  Neither had the energy to stay up long, however.    Adam shut his book in the middle of a lengthy chapter, and Joe decided to finish his letter sometime when he felt less groggy.

    Just before entering his own room, Adam peered into Joe’s and told him to sleep as late as he liked the next morning.  “We don’t have to be at Independence Hall ‘til 10:30, and it isn’t far, so let’s just have a late brunch and catch a bite at the Centennial after the ceremonies end.”

    “That’s the best news I’ve heard in days.”  Joe yawned and sank into his pillow, for as much as he was enjoying the new sights and experiences, for all his youth and energy, he was tired.

    Adam smiled at how quickly Joe began to snore, and rolling his shoulders to ease weary muscles, he dressed for bed and soon followed his younger brother’s excellent example.  As he drifted to sleep, he recalled his earlier intention of talking to Joe about his childhood resentment of a brother who had left him to go off to college.  Oh, well, another time would do as well.  After all, it couldn’t possibly be bothering the kid much after all these years.  Adam fell asleep, not realizing how soon or how harshly he would be struck with just how much those hidden hurts still bothered the kid brother who seemed to rush through life with never a care.
 

    Adam and Joe woke to a city gone mad, crazed by crowds thronging the streets, pressing their way into overbooked hotels and packing dining halls all over Philadelphia.  Entering the lobby after their late brunch, the Cartwright brothers got their first taste of the general mayhem when they overheard a thin man in a top hat pleading with the desk clerk for a room.  “I’m sorry, sir,” the belabored clerk replied stridently, “but as I’ve been trying to explain, it was simply impossible to hold your room when you did not arrive as planned yesterday.”

    “But it isn’t my fault that the railroad has been changing its hours every blessed day, nor that it refused to stop at my station because it was already full and not in need of passengers,” the frantic man shouted.  “I arrived as quickly as I could!”

    “Again, sir, I am sorry,” the clerk responded with crisp politeness, “but that room has been rented, and we have no others available.”

    “What about my luggage?” a portly man demanded, pounding his fist on the counter to get the clerk’s attention.  “I checked in yesterday morning and have yet to see a single piece delivered to my room.”

    The clerk sighed and began an explanation he had obviously been repeating all morning.  “My apologies, sir, and, I assure you, your luggage will be brought to your room as soon as it arrives.  We have no control over the express companies being used by the railroads for transport of baggage, but it is my understanding that the livery men are working around the clock, some having gone without sleep for the last two nights, and their poor horses are becoming candidates for the intervention of the S.P.C.A.  They are simply overwhelmed by the number of trunks to be delivered.”

    “Well, this represents incredibly poor planning on someone’s part,” the portly man fumed and stalked off in a huff.

    Joe leaned close to Adam’s ear as they exited the hotel.  “Sure glad we had you doing our planning.”

    “Be thankful that mining convention required an earlier arrival date,” Adam said with a shake of his head.  “I’m not sure any amount of careful planning would have saved us those men’s fate if we had arrived in Philadelphia in the last day or two, and it’s probably going to get worse, the closer we get to the Fourth.  Despite the city’s best efforts—and they’ve been considerable—the systems in place are inadequate for an influx of this size.”

    The streets were as busy as the hotel lobby, with triumphal arches being set up on Chestnut Street and practically every building in sight being decked out in flags and streamers of red, white and blue.  “Good thing we left a bit early,” Adam observed, taking Joe’s arm so they wouldn’t become separated in the crowd of passersby thronging the sidewalks, even though most commercial business had been suspended and would remain so throughout the city’s celebration of the Glorious Fourth.

    As they entered Independence Square, Adam pointed to a recently erected platform covered by a canvas awning.  “That’s where the public ceremony will take place.  We’re very fortunate to have an invitation to the private presentation, Joe.”

    “Yes, sir, I know,” Joe said.  “It was real nice of that old sergeant of yours to get us the special invite.”

    “Invitation,” Adam corrected.  “Yes, Mr. Breckenridge did us a great kindness, and I hope you will express your appreciation by conducting yourself in a manner appropriate to the occasion.”

    Joe frowned.  “Adam, you got no confidence in me at all, do you?”

    Adam skewed a twitting smile in his brother’s direction.  “I have some confidence, yes, but let’s just say it isn’t unshakable.”

    Arriving at the door to Independence Hall, Adam presented their tickets, and he and Joe were ushered into the west chamber of the building, where all the guests were gathering.  Joe spotted Breckenridge before Adam did and gave him a wide wave, accompanied by a bright smile.

    “Keep your hands at your sides, please,” Adam muttered through his teeth.  “He doesn’t have time to deal with a brash youngster this morning.”

    Saul Breckenridge, however, quickly moved toward them, beaming with pleasure.  “Lieutenant Cartwright, so pleased you could be here this morning—and you, too, of course, young man.”

    “Now, Saul, what have I told you about using that old military title?” Adam chided, taking the man’s hand.

    “Old habits die hard,” Saul said, “but Adam it is—and Joseph, if I remember correctly.”

    Joe nodded as he shook the older man’s hand.  “Yes, sir, and I’m real grateful to you for inviting us this morning.  I expect I’ll learn a lot.”

    “Young man, you do know how to gratify the heart of an old teacher,” Saul said warmly.  He turned to Adam.  “Adam, I’d like to introduce you and young Joseph to some of the other authors.”

     “We’d be very pleased and honored to make their acquaintance, wouldn’t we, Joe?” Adam responded.

    “Um, yes, sure we would,” Joe mumbled, somewhat hesitantly.  He trailed silently behind his brother and the Connecticut Centennial Commissioner as they went from one distinguished writer to another, being introduced, shaking hands and, in Adam’s case, making complimentary remarks about the work of several of the men to whom they were introduced.  Even when meeting men he hadn’t heard of, Adam managed to come across as a suave, knowledgeable man, while Joe felt as awkward as a newborn colt, tottering on shaky legs.  Probably all that time back here that did it for him, Joe concluded, but while he envied his older brother’s poise, he still thought four to six years away from home too high a price to pay for a little social polish.

    Promptly at eleven, the guests were directed into the east chamber of Independence Hall, and Adam and Joe took their seats.  Saul Breckenridge, of course, was seated with the other presenters of revolutionary biographies in a separate section.  Colonel Frank M. Etting, Chairman of the Committee for the Restoration of Independence Hall, opened the ceremonies with a welcoming address.  Then the Reverend William White Bronson led the opening prayer.  A choir of fifty voices sang John Greenleaf Whittier’s newly composed “Centennial Hymn,” and it was then time for the presentations to begin.

    When the first name was called, Little Joe tittered softly into his hand, for the name was not that of any man there, but one he recognized from American history books.  A sharp jab from Adam’s elbow gave him further incentive to control his urge to burst out laughing.  Even so, Joe couldn’t keep his lips still as he saw “George Washington” and “Ethan Allen,” among other prominent men from history, walk to the platform in suits no colonial gentleman would recognize and lay their memoirs on the table for submission to the archives of the State House.  “Don’t look quite like I pictured them from the history books,” he whispered to Adam and was promptly and brusquely hushed.

    Once all the essays had been delivered, the small gathering proceeded outside for the public ceremony, set to begin at 12:30.  As invited guests, Adam and Joe were seated in a reserved section, only two rows back from the canvas-covered platform, where they would have an excellent view.  In fact, as the Centennial Music Association struck up Helfrich’s “Centennial Triumphant March,” Joe wished they were a dozen rows further back, for the music was loud.  After a brief welcoming address, the song sung inside the Hall was again performed, this time by a choir of one hundred fifty voices.  The rest of the program featured speeches, alternating with patriotic vocal and instrumental offerings, from the band’s rendition of “God Save America” to the choir’s ode, “ The Voice of the Old Bell,” both composed to celebrate the American centennial.  The ceremonies ended with the singing of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and prayer.

    After again expressing their gratitude to Saul Breckenridge for extending them the invitations, the Cartwright brothers caught a streetcar out to Fairmount Park and once again entered the Main Exhibition Hall, with dinner being the first item on their agenda.  The Café Leland was closest to the entrance, so they chose that restaurant again.  Adam selected several seafood items from the menu: deviled lobster, lobster salad and oyster pie, while Little Joe, for once, made choices from the low end of the price range, having chicken pie, cheese slices and a fruit cup.  “Care for a piece of pie to finish out the meal?” Adam asked when they had both cleaned their plates.

    “Could I have the macaroons, instead?” Joe asked.  “I know they cost more, but that’s not why I want them, honest.  I just don’t think I’m hungry enough for pie.”

    Adam chuckled softly.  “I’m not going to quibble over a five-cent difference, especially since you let me off easy on the main part of your meal.  Have the cookies, if that’s what you want.”

    Joe thanked his brother, and after he and Adam had eaten their desserts, they were once more ready to tackle their around-the-world tour, beginning with the exhibits from the Orange Free State.

    The Dutch republic in southeast Africa had enclosed its exhibits in a pavilion painted in imitation of black walnut and draped with festoons of red, white and blue, as well as the national colors of white and yellow.  The exhibits were entirely the work of the government and featured the usual mineral and agricultural products, along with native artifacts, such as the shields and whips of rhinoceros leather.  There were cases of stuffed birds, flaunting singular and stunning feathers, such as ostrich plumes, along with collections of insects and bird eggs.  Little Joe pointed to an ostrich egg of remarkable size.  “Hey, finally an egg big enough to fill Hoss up!”

    Adam chuckled wryly.  “You sure?”

    Glad to see Adam in a mood for fun, Joe teased back, “Well, two would do the trick, for sure!”

     “Three would be safer,” Adam quipped drolly, and Joe laughingly agreed.

    Passing two enormous tusks of ivory, the brothers viewed the modest display of art created by the Dutch settlers, a collection of crude, but effective scenes of domestic life carved by a pen knife.  The best showed an old pastor, seated in an armchair, reading the Bible.

    The Peruvian pavilion, decorated with arms of the republic and its national colors, stood next to that of the Orange Free State at the far western end of the Main Exhibition Hall.  Minerals were displayed around the sides of the pavilion: gold, silver, precious stones, quicksilver, copper, iron, lead and others.  Some of the manufactured products were similar to those of other countries, but some were unique, as well.  The principal displays were products of leather, soap and sugar, while the collection of native wines and liquors was also extensive.  Peruvian bark, from which came quinine, was one of the more notable products, and the republic had also sent examples of more rare goods, such as cinnamon, pimento, indigo, sarsaparilla and vanilla.  The dress and weapons of the Indian tribes were interesting, but one look at the exhibit of skeletons and skulls with the hair still attached was enough to make Little Joe wish he’d eaten a less substantial dinner.  “Uh, can we get out of here?” he asked Adam, who seemed fascinated with the native pottery displayed amidst the human remains, with their long wavy hair and sharp yellow teeth.

    Adam gave him a sympathetic smile and nodded.  “I didn’t see anything like this listed in the catalog of exhibits from the Argentine Confederation,” he assured Joe.

    “Thank goodness,” Joe whispered, heading eagerly for the circular pavilion next door.

    More minerals met his eye, none different from those seen elsewhere, but some of the textile specimens were more rare, such as the fabrics made from native plants and the mats woven by prisoners of the State.  Joe particularly liked the wool hats and tried on several, with obvious pleasure.  His hand lingered longest on a black one with a gray band, but he laid it aside with a sad shake of his head.

    When the boots displayed nearby met the same response, Adam began to realize that while Joe wanted them for himself, he was saving his money to spend on others.  Admirable, of course, but if the kid had just used better sense in handling his money, he could have had enough for both.  Still, either the hat or a pair of Argentine boots would make a nice gift for his younger brother, so Adam filed that information away with all the other ideas he’d been gathering as they toured the Exposition.  No, he chuckled to himself, finding something that the greedy-eyed youngster might like should be no problem at all.

    Hearing the soft laughter, Joe looked across at his brother, but Adam just shook his head to indicate that the joke was a private one.  Joe frowned and continued looking at other items made from leather.

    Sitting in the midst of them was a trunk, which at first excited no great interest.  Then a sales representative began to display its wonders, and neither Adam nor Joe could tear his eyes away.  Without disturbing what was packed inside, the trunk could be transformed into a stylish sofa.  The salesman pressed on one arm, and a writing desk appeared, with everything needed to conduct correspondence.  Pressing on the other arm produced a container for every convenience of travel, the clothes now situated in a receptacle at the back of the sofa.  But the wonders of that trunk had not yet been fully revealed, for the Argentine salesman next let down the back of the sofa to form a comfortable bed, and then transformed it into a table for four, with a receptacle for linens, dishes and cutlery included.

    “Amazing, truly amazing,” Adam said as the representative folded everything back into a trunk again.  He lifted the luggage, finding it surprisingly light.

    “Can’t you just see Pa toting that along on a trail drive?” Joe giggled.

    “Not really,” Adam muttered out the side of his mouth.  Not only would carrying along a combination sofa, table and bed probably strike men sleeping in bedrolls as the affectation of a snob, but Pa was likely to think that six hundred dollars was too much to pay for the privilege of being laughed at by his hired crew.  Thanking the salesman for the demonstration, Adam moved quickly away, and almost immediately a finely tooled briefcase caught his avid attention.  “Would Pa like this?” he asked his younger brother.

    “You bet!” Joe agreed enthusiastically.  “For Christmas?”

    Adam made a noncommittal shrug.  “Maybe his birthday.  That’s coming up in September, you know.”

    Joe groaned, wondering how he would ever find enough money to buy two great presents for Pa, without scrimping on his gifts to others.  Those poker parties at the Silver Dollar were coming back to haunt him, not to mention the money he’d wasted at Shantyville, but it was too late now to brood over past sins.  Somehow he’d work out the dilemma, but at the moment he had no idea how, and the remaining exhibits of Indian weapons and figures of Argentine peasants provided no clue.

    The contents of the gaily painted circular pavilion of Chile yielded no inspiration, either, especially not in the showcases of minerals surrounding the sides.  Adam and Joe spent some time looking at the old pottery, domestic and agricultural tools and the weapons of the Indian tribes, but, to Joe, especially, the most interesting display in the pavilion was the stuffed hides of animals native to Chile: cougar, jaguar, llama, guanaco and monkeys.

    Having finished the exhibits in the southern half of the building, the Cartwrights crossed the main aisle to view the three remaining countries they had not had time to tour the previous afternoon, beginning with Italy.  The Italian pavilion was enclosed with a light framework with three arches fronting the main aisle.  Over the center one a shield bore the white cross of Savoy, surmounted by a trophy of national flags.  Each of the other entrances bore a shield with the arms of the Kingdom and a similar trophy of national colors.  A tall flagstaff stood at each end of the entrance, but each bore a different banner.  The one on the east proclaimed, “Italy United Forever,” while the western banner was dedicated “To the Great Italian Navigator, Christopher Columbus.”

    The first thing the Cartwrights saw on entering the pavilion was a collection of bronzes, some half-size reproductions of ancient works of art.  “They’re beautiful,” Joe murmured in awe.

    Adam rested a hand on his shoulder.  “We’ll see even better specimens in Memorial Hall.  Nobody creates sculpture as exquisite as the Italians.”

    “Not even France,” Joe whispered, and Adam pursed his lips tightly to keep from laughing at his brother’s obvious disappointment that France did not lead the world in all things artistic.

    Beautifully carved furniture was displayed beside the reproductions.  An Episcopal chair and desk were carved with scenes from Scripture and the heads of cherubs, evidently a popular device among Italians.  An entire case from Venice was devoted to carved wooden cherubs, and one of them reminded Adam so poignantly of Little Joe as a child that he gasped in wonder.  Although he admired the carving, Adam couldn’t bring himself to buy it with the older version of the cherub standing beside him.  If Joe were to figure out the reason behind the purchase, there’d be no end to the ribbing his older brother would have to tolerate, so Adam said nothing and moved on to a mirror frame carved in dark, rich wood, around which a flock of chubby wooden children danced.

    An old sideboard stood out among the newer pieces of furniture.  Decorated in imitation ruins, the piece showed one pillar, broken midway, with an owl perched thereon and a cornice covered with vines hanging down like tears.  The inlaid tables from Milan, ornamented with pictures in papier-mâché were exquisite pieces, too, but Adam stopped short at the cases of jewelry, eyeing thoughtfully the beautiful corals and ornaments in filigree and gold.

    Joe almost laughed when he saw the case that drew his older brother’s most careful attention.  Cameos, of course.  “You might just as well go ahead and buy her one, older brother,” he teased.  “With only Norway and Sweden left to look at, I doubt you’ll find any better.”

    “Just what I was thinking,” Adam admitted.

    “And who is the lucky lady?” Joe queried.  “Becky?”

    Adam arched an eyebrow.  “That’s Miss Montgomery to you, boy.”

    “Oh, yes, sir, absolutely, sir,” Joe said, popping a sassy salute.  “So, does this mean you’re getting serious about the lovely Miss Montgomery?”

    Adam surveyed him with cool eyes.  “None of your business.”

    Joe gave a low whistle, slowly slid a safe distance away and concentrated on the display of stages in cameo cutting, from shell to finished silhouette, while Adam purchased his gift in relative privacy.

    Package in hand, Adam rejoined his brother, and they made their way past displays of glassware, pottery and straw goods from Tuscany, giving most of them only cursory attention.  It was a different matter, of course, when they came to the north end of the pavilion, where a large map detailed Garibaldi’s plan for improving the navigation of the Tiber and draining the marshes of the Campagna.  Adam was typically lost in study of the Italian liberator’s design, but there were, fortunately, enough scenic photographs nearby that Joe wasn’t completely bored.

    When Adam was finally able to tear himself away from the absorbing map, he and Joe moved toward the Norwegian pavilion, enclosed in a framework of pine, ornamented with red lines.  “The pavilion itself is on sale, according to the catalog,” Adam commented drolly as they entered.

    “Hey, maybe we ought to buy it, set it up in the front yard and give Pa and Hoss and all the hands a real taste of the Centennial,” Joe teased.  “I could make a few pots, and you could set up a tiresome old educational exhibit.”

    Adam responded with an indulgent smile, the kind adults bestow upon foolish children.

    Easily reading the patronizing expression, Little Joe folded his arms and stalked over to the east side of the pavilion, where a group of figures caught his attention and dispelled the clouds forming on his brow.  A family of Laplanders, dressed in furs, was represented: father, mother, infant and child.  The baby was carried in a leather case, suspended from the mother’s neck, while the other child stood by her side, decked out in a holiday suit of white bearskin.

    “There’s another set on the other side of the pavilion,” Joe heard a voice behind him say softly.  “Would you care to see them?”

    Joe turned, face still petulant.  “Won’t that ruin your systematic plan to see everything in order?"

    Though he felt the strain on his patience, Adam forced himself to hold on to his temper.  “Not enough to matter.  Come on.”

    Allowing himself to be appeased, Joe slipped past three cases of jewelry and silverware with barely a glance and came to stand before the bride and groom on the west side of the pavilion.  “Why, if it isn’t Adam Cartwright and the lovely Rebecca,” he tossed over his shoulder with a naughty smirk.

    Adam rolled his eyes and landed a light swat on his brother’s backside.  “All right, you rascal.  See if I indulge one of your whims again.  There’s some glassware from Christiana over there that should effectively take your mind off nonsense, and if that fails, we’ll head straight for the ‘tiresome old educational exhibit.’”

    “Anything but that!” Joe pleaded.  “I’ll be good, bubba.”

    Adam groaned.  What am I supposed to do with a kid who wants the full respect of manhood one moment and plays the part of a child the next?

    The brothers worked their way amiably through exhibits of pianos, various types of cloth and shoes and a collection of antique coins and medals, only to come face to face with a daunting display of bottles of cod liver oil.  My turn to tease, Adam thought and said aloud, “Just let me know if you’re feeling poorly, little buddy, and we’ll get you fixed right up.”

    Joe scrunched his nose at the malodorous jest.  “Oh, you are funny, aren’t you?  I’m feeling fine, just fine.”

    “Oh, well, if you’re feeling fit, maybe you’d enjoy these more,” Adam chuckled, pointing to a suit of ancient armor and weapons of the same period.

    “Much better,” Joe agreed with a grin.

    The odd Norwegian carriages with a perch behind for the driver to either sit or stand also interested Little Joe, as did the sledge made in a mountain district in 1625, but he groaned when he was once again faced with another country’s educational exhibits.  Past those, however, at the very rear of the court, stood a galleon with a big Viking at the helm.  Joe stood staring at it for a long time.  “Kinda looks like Hoss’s Uncle Gunnar,” he whispered.

    Adam’s hand immediately came to rest against his younger brother’s back.  It was only last year that Little Joe had been captured by comancheros, led by Hoss’s uncle, and shot by one of his henchman when Gunnar tried to help Joe and the neighbor girl abducted with him to escape.  “Gunnar was Swedish,” Adam said gently, “and that’s where we were headed next, but if the memories are too bitter, little buddy . . .”

    “Don’t be silly,” Joe scoffed with a quick shrug of his shoulder.  “The memories aren’t all bitter.  Besides, the Swedes are Hoss’s people, too—and his mother’s.  I want to learn about them, so I can tell Hoss when we get home.  Let’s go.”

    “Okay, but you tell me if you need to leave.”

    “I won’t need to leave,” Joe snorted.  “I’m not a baby, Adam.”

    You’re not made of iron, either, little buddy.  But Adam merely nodded, concealing his concern and his intent to keep a watchful eye on his younger brother as they toured through Sweden.

    Enclosed along the sides, the front of the Swedish pavilion stood open on the main aisle, marked by a series of tall flagstaffs, bearing banners of blue with the yellow Swedish cross.  Festoons of blue and yellow streamers were draped between the flagstaffs, and a group of life-sized figures in national dress, similar to the Norwegian ones, greeted the Cartwright brothers as they entered.  Coming from the west, they first encountered a hunting scene.  A large elk had just been brought down and lay bleeding on the ground as the hunter’s family, obviously proud of their provider’s triumph, watched the animal’s death struggle.

    Moving to the east side of the front entrance, they came upon a domestic scene in which a tall, handsome lad, hands clasped awkwardly behind his back, was evidently asking permission to wed the blushing beauty of the household.  The father was sitting opposite the youth, still holding the clock he had been mending, as he gazed down, pondering whether to accept this suitor to his daughter.  Mother appeared to be intervening for the young couple, while daughter stood nearby, awaiting the verdict.  “Might as well give in, Pa,” Joe chuckled, noticing the way the girl’s eyes were riveted on the young man.  “It’s three against one.”  He smiled up at Adam.  “I was teasing about that Norwegian pavilion, but this is something I really do wish we could buy and take home.  Hoss would love seeing these!”

    A Swedish commissioner turned at the sound of Joe’s voice and stepped forward.  “They are all for sale,” the man stated; then he laughed.  “We will even separate the husband and wife and sell the bride away from the groom!”

    “You and your big mouth.” Adam hissed softly at his younger brother.

    Joe had the grace to look chagrinned and the sense to keep his mouth shut.  Adam was much more adept at handling ticklish situations than he, and Joe was completely satisfied to let older brother do just that.

     “I wish we could, as they exhibit fine workmanship,” Adam told the foreign commissioner politely, “but I’m afraid we’ll have to decline.”

    “Quite all right, sir,” the Swedish official said smoothly, “but perhaps I could interest you in this book of statistics about our country, which the commission has prepared.  Only fifty cents, and it comes with a free list of the exhibits.”

    Adam felt there was no gracious way out of buying the booklet.  Besides, the list of exhibits might prove useful, and fifty cents was little enough to ask.  He quickly put two quarters in the man’s hand and accepted the reading material in return, handing it to Little Joe.  “Keep it for Hoss,” he instructed.

    “Yeah, he’ll like that,” Joe said with a warm smile.  He began thumbing through the pages.  “Hey, it says there are four more groups of figures like these.  I’d like to see them, Adam.”

    “If you can keep your mouth shut about purchasing them, we will,” Adam said under his breath, “but we’re not chasing around the four sides of the pavilion looking for them.  This time we do things in order.”

    “Yes, sir,” Joe said, dutifully turning his attention to the porcelain and pottery in the front line.

    Close by, an old and shabby glass tumbler stood in stark contrast to the sparkling crystal glassware surrounding it.  Joe hastily consulted the catalog and told Adam they were looking at the first glass ever pressed in America.  “Says here the man who made it was threatened with death by the glassblowers,” Joe said.  “Guess they were afraid they’d be out of a job, huh?”

    “Probably,” Adam agreed.  “Men can get pretty desperate when they’re faced with loss of their livelihood.”

    “Yeah, I’ve seen that back home,” Joe commented, “especially when the railroad quit needing all those Chinese workers they brought in.”

    Adam nodded soberly, remembering the violence between white miners fearful of losing their jobs and Chinamen willing to work for half-wages.  Joe had been barely twelve years old during the worst of it, but his loyalty to Hop Sing had made him keenly aware of the danger to the diminutive cook’s people.  Really was foolish of me to tell him he was too young to have seen prejudice against ethnic peoples.  He’s seen plenty—not as much as I, perhaps, but more than enough.

    Looking around for something to distract his younger brother from his uncharacteristically sober mood, Adam spotted a unique meerschaum pipe.  “Look at this, Joe,” he urged.

    Joe turned to look at the intricately carved, temple-shaped pipe, which stood over two feet high in the center of a table.  He snickered when he saw four long tubes attached.  “One for each Cartwright.”

    It was a feeble joke, but Adam made himself laugh at it.  “Except Pa’s the only one who smokes—unless you’re hiding something I don’t know.”

    Joe shook his head.  “Naw.  I tried it once, when I was just a kid, and got sick as a dog.  Never wanted it after that.”

    “When you were just a kid,” Adam scoffed, his smile clearly communicating that Joe was still “just a kid” in his older brother’s view.  “And when would that have been, little man?”

    “Thirteen, fourteen, somewhere in there.”  Joe cocked his head inquisitively.  “You ever try it?  When you were living back east maybe?”

    “Not exactly,” Adam said, too quickly.  He could pinpoint the exact moment he had developed a genuine distaste for tobacco, but he was not about to share that memory with his younger brother.  A vivid description of that hazing incident during his freshman year couldn’t possibly do anything but discourage the kid, and Joe didn’t need more reasons to reject going to college.  “Let’s just say I was around other people’s smoke enough to decide that I didn’t want to add mine to the general haze.”

    Joe could tell Adam was holding something back from him again, and, as always, it hurt.  Adam knows everything there is about me, and he won’t let me know nothin’ about him, nothin’ except how smart he is and how much better than me he thinks he can do everything!

    “Why, look here, little buddy,” Adam said with deliberate brightness.  “More of the kind of thing you like best.”  He indicated the stuffed wolf near a case of furs.

    Licking his lips, Joe nodded without comment.  He really does think I’m a baby.  ‘Just put a stuffed animal in front of the little boy, and he’ll forget all the things I don’t want to talk about.’  While Joe didn’t appreciate the attempt to distract him, he did like the way the large white wolf stood out against the pack of smaller brown ones in the scene Adam had shown him.  Nearby was an enormous and lush rug made from natural fur and Joe smiled dreamily, now thoroughly distracted, as he pictured himself lying before a blazing fire, lost in the luxury of the soft pile and in the glowing azure eyes of the flaxen-haired girl stretched beside him on the rug.

    “Joe,” Adam called for the second time, “aren’t you interested in seeing these knives?”

    “Huh?” Joe said, reluctantly leaving the lovely blonde Swede of his dreams and hurrying over to the exhibit of Bessemer steel before which his brother impatiently stood.  It featured articles as small as a lady’s toilette mirror and as large as a fifteen-foot piston rod for a five-ton steam hammer, all made from the gleaming metal.

    As Adam had surmised, of course, Joe was most drawn to the swords and knives, picking up several of them with obvious longing.  He set them down again with wistful eyes, and noting the regretful expression, Adam added another note to his long list of ideas for his little brother.  Not a sword, though.  Can’t stand seeing him with a blade made for killing, but maybe a new knife .  This is going to be a tough decision, he realized. What is it the kid would like most?  In the meantime, Adam selected several items he thought would be useful back home, including a sharp pair of scissors for Hop Sing and some steel files to keep their other tools sharp, and placed an order.

    After viewing a display devoted to safety matches, one of Sweden’s prominent industries, and the inevitable educational exhibits, Adam draped an arm around his brother’s shoulders as they returned to the main aisle.  “Well, that finishes the Main Building,” he said.

    “Thank goodness,” Joe replied, letting his tongue hang out to demonstrate how tired he was.

    “Except for the Carriage Annex,” Adam added with a devilish grin.

    “Oh, boy,” Joe groaned.

    “Why, little brother, I thought you were fond of horse-drawn vehicles,” Adam snickered as he pulled the boy by the elbow toward the west exit.

    “When I’m riding in them, yes,” Joe grumbled.  “Walkin’ through acres of ‘em, that’s a whole different thing, brother.”

    “It’s nowhere close to that large an exhibit,” Adam scoffed.

    They came out into the central square separating the Main Exhibition Hall from Machinery Hall, and Joe made a beeline for the Bartholdi fountain to splash his face with cool water.  Sure scampers fast for all the whining about how tired he is, Adam observed as he stood waiting, arms folded in cool appraisal.  Hope he doesn’t treat this like the water trough back home and stick his head under and shake off, like a dog drying his fur!

    Joe returned—dry-headed, to Adam’s relief—but looking so refreshed that his older brother was tempted to follow his example.  Opting for dignity over comfort, however, Adam merely walked north, crossed the Avenue of the Americas to the opposite side and entered the Carriage Annex.

    Most of the exhibits inside were American, but Great Britain, Canada, Germany, Austria, Belgium, Italy and France had also sent examples of coaches, carriages, sleighs, omnibuses and railway cars.  The first vehicles the Cartwright brothers saw when they walked in the west door were carts designed for children.  “Hey, why didn’t you grown folks get me a rig like this when I was a kid?” Joe queried, admiring the lightweight carriage that could be pulled by a small pony.

    “Because we had to chase you all over the countryside as it was,” Adam responded with a sardonic smile.  “Besides, you’re still a kid, so if you really want one, little buddy . . .”

    “Oh, shut up,” Joe suggested, although he took the ribbing with good humor this time.

    As they approached a display of Concord stagecoaches, the boys overheard a matronly woman reminiscing with a young girl about “the old days” when one of these “quaint old Concords” was the only way to get from place to place.  “What does she mean, ‘old days’?” Joe laughed as the lady moved on to another exhibit of carriages.  He doffed his straw hat and addressed the woman’s back.  “Why, in our part of the world, ma’am, this here’s the newfangledest means of gettin’ ‘round.”

    “Scarcely even true for us, anymore, Joe,” Adam chuckled.  “The railroad is changing the face of the country.  You can reach all but the most remote places by rail now.”

    Joe nodded, recalling their trip to Philadelphia.  “And the East is thick with them,” he said as he put his hat back on.  “Guess the kids who celebrate America’s second hundred years won’t even know what it is to bounce around in an ‘old’ Concord.”

    “Oh, you would have preferred to come here on a stage, instead of the transcontinental railroad?” Adam asked with a playfully arched eyebrow.

    Grinning, Joe shook his head.  “Not on your life, brother!  I like my comfort.”

    “Speaking of comfort, take a look at this,” Adam suggested, moving toward a full-scale Pullman Palace Hotel car.

    “Hey, yeah!” Joe cried, immediately climbing aboard for a closer look.

    Adam smiled indulgently.  Having ridden in a hotel car before, he had no particular desire to see this one, but he willingly followed his younger brother up the steps and into the car.  “All the comforts of home,” he commented.  “Eat, sleep and relax all in one car.”

    “I know how the beds work,” Joe said, “and I see the kitchen, but where do you eat, in your lap?”

    Adam laughed.  “No, there are removable tables that can be set up between each set of seats at mealtime and taken away when you’re through.  Look, there’s a couple set up at the end of the car.”

    Joe looked impressed as he moved down the aisle for a closer look at the table between two facing train seats, set with all the flair of a first-rate restaurant, even to the flowers on the table.  “Now, that’s some idea!  Sure would be better than hopping off the train and racing to and from some eatery in thirty minutes or less.”  He cocked his head and put on his most disarming smile.  “Any chance of our riding home in style like this?”

    Laughing, Adam shook his head.  “You don’t care how much of my money you spend, do you, kid?”

    Joe’s face fell at the reminder of who was footing the bill for the trip.  Figuring Adam wasn’t likely to shell out any extra cash for his kid brother’s comfort, he muttered, “Well, let’s look at something else then,” and trotted back down the aisle and out of the car.  There was a parlor car, full of comfortable individual chairs, next to the hotel car, but Joe just shrugged when Adam pointed it out.  Just another luxury he wasn’t likely to experience.  He went aboard and looked around briefly, without comment, and left as quickly as he’d entered, treating all the other rail cars in the same manner.

    When he saw a streetcar on display, however, Joe protested, “We sure don’t need to look at those!  I’ve seen enough horse cars to last me a lifetime.”

    Adam chuckled, not so much because he was amused as in an attempt to restore a lighter attitude in his younger brother.  “Okay,” he said drolly.  “Since you’re getting to be such a cosmopolitan traveler, we can skip these, I suppose.”

    Joe tried to hang on to his bad mood, but his native sense of humor overcame the urge.  He gave the joke a chuckle or two, and he and Adam finished looking at the Carriage Annex without further friction.  At Adam’s suggestion they sat outside on a bench on the north side of the building, enjoying the view down into the woods of beautiful Lansdowne Valley, as a slight breeze caressed their faces with cool fingers.  In the distance they could see the towers of Agricultural Hall, and closer by, Horticultural Hall stood out like a fairy palace with its variegated colors.  On the slope directly below them a number of smaller buildings were scattered and Joe asked Adam what they were.

    Adam threw his head back and laughed heartily.  “Why, I’m so glad you asked, little brother.  They’re your favorite kind of exhibit.  That’s the model kindergarten just below us, with the Swedish schoolhouse on the left and the Pennsylvania Educational Department on the right.”

    Joe groaned loudly.  “Whole buildings?  They built whole buildings to stuff full of that boring stuff?”

    Adam bent forward, grabbing his knees as his belly shook with mirth.  “I do want to see them eventually,” he said, coming up for air, “but I’ll spare you today.  I thought we’d just have an early supper at the French Restaurant and go back to the hotel.”

    “Aux Trois Fréres Provençeaux?” Joe asked, eyes lighting in eager expectation.  “I hear it’s great!”

    “And so are the prices,” Adam responded with dour expression.  “No, little buddy, I don’t plan to give you that much assistance in your petty campaign to empty my pockets.  I meant Lafayette’s, down there.”  He pointed past the kindergarten to a building edging the valley below.

    Hurt by the reminder of how he had childishly run up the tab in the past, Joe glanced away.  “Oh, well, it’s probably good, too.”

    Adam nodded firmly.  “Good and reasonably priced, that’s the report.”

    “Well, I’m hungry enough to eat now, if you are,” Joe suggested, looking back tentatively.

    Agreeing readily, Adam stood up, and he and Joe walked down the slope and crossed a curved pathway to the frame building that housed the French restaurant.  The second story had been arranged as an open-air pavilion, and because the day was still warm, Adam suggested that they have their supper there.  Wanting to make the meal more special for his younger brother, he selected a couple of appetizers for both of them, raw oysters on the half shell and pâté de foie gras; then he suggested they each begin the meal with a bowl of soup.  “I’m having the tomato, but you choose whatever strikes your fancy.”

    As Adam had anticipated, Joe selected the only soup on the menu that had a French-sounding name, Soup Julienne, but Joe surprised him by turning down the chateaubriand with béarnaise sauce, which Adam selected for himself.  “Pa always said that was too big a cut for me,” Joe explained.

    “Well, you’re a big boy now,” Adam teased,  “with the appetite to match!”

    Joe grinned.  “Not tonight, I’m not, especially not if I do justice to those appetizers you ordered.  I want the chicken with truffles, and I’ll have the French green peas and French string beans with it, please.”

    Now, that was predictable, Adam thought, smiling.  He started to order the string beans, American style, for himself, but then he decided that his younger brother probably had the right idea.  After all, what was the point of dining in a French restaurant unless you supped on French food?  Ignoring that theory when it came time for dessert, however, Adam ordered plum pudding a l’Anglaise, but Joe stayed true to form with his selection of French vanilla ice cream, topped with brandied cherries.

    As they were waiting for the desserts to be served, Adam looked down on the avenues of the Centennial grounds, filled with people making their way toward the exits, as closing time was fast approaching.  “Larger crowd than usual,” he commented.

    Joe, who had been enjoying the opposite view of the wooded valley to the north and east, turned and nodded as he followed his brother’s gaze.  “Must be folks coming in for the big Fourth, don’t you think?”

    “Yes, of course,” Adam agreed, “which is why we won’t be returning to the Exhibition until after that, to avoid the crowds.”

    “Makes sense,” Joe replied amiably.  Then he grinned.  “Of course, it wouldn’t be open tomorrow, anyway.  You got something planned or are we just gonna lay around the room and rest up?”

    Adam chuckled.  “We could, if you’re that tired, but I thought we’d go over to Wissahickon Park.  You haven’t seen that part before, and I doubt that it will attract the kind of crowds other places might.  Should be cool, as well, because of all the shade trees.”

    “Sounds good, brother,” Joe said, casting another appreciative glance to the woodlands below.  “You really have done a fine job of planning this trip, Adam.”

    “Thanks, Joe.”

    The waiter arrived with their desserts and coffee, and both brothers concluded that there was no better way to end their day at the Centennial Exposition.

    Little Joe grabbed hold of the upright bar as the streetcar swung around a corner, grinning as he saw Adam also lurch for a pole to hang onto.  Though the car was packed full, he didn’t mind having to stand up.  Adam had decided they could skip church, since there would be a service the next morning in conjunction with the centennial festivities, so Joe had been able to sleep as long as he liked.  After breakfast in the crowded dining room, he and Adam had walked up to Eighth Street to catch the direct line to the park.  Dressed in ranch wear, his straw hat and flat-soled balmorals being the only concessions to eastern style, Joe was comfortable and content with the plans for the day, a guaranteed impetus toward a good mood.

    Though it was only mid-morning, salvos of gunfire punctuated the air and sent a haze drifting over the tops of buildings all around Philadelphia.  “Sounds like the celebration is already starting,” Joe said, looking back at Adam, who was standing behind him.

    Adam adjusted his black felt hat, which an exiting fellow passenger had bumped down over his nose.  “I’m surprised staid old Philadelphia tolerates that on a Sunday.”

    “It’s the birthday party to end all birthday parties, older brother!” Joe proclaimed, raising his voice to be heard over another thunderous burst of cannon fire.  “Even old stick-in-the-muds like these Philadelphians understand that.  Oh, but not you, of course.”

    Adam calmly removed his hat and moved to cuff the side of Joe’s head with it. Sporting a puckish grin, Joe ducked, as others on the streetcar watched, some amused, some critical of the misbehavior of these coarse characters in clothing completely unsuitable for “staid old Philadelphia.”

    Jumping off the streetcar, Little Joe trotted down to the boat landing, while Adam ambled leisurely behind him.  “What’s your hurry?” Adam called.  “We’re obviously between boats.”

    Joe jogged back to join his brother.  “Just got energy to burn, I guess.  How long you think it’ll be before the next steamboat?”

    Adam consulted his pocket watch.  “Boats leave here every forty-five minutes, beginning at 7 a.m., and judging by the time now, I’d calculate a fifteen-minute wait.”

    “Not too bad,” Joe said, hopping up on the top rail of the wooden fence separating them from the dock.

    The Star pulled in on schedule and after loading passengers chugged its way up the Schuylkill River to the Falls of Wissahickon, where the Cartwrights debarked.  They walked about three-quarters of a mile over gentle terrain to the riverside town where they had dined before.  “Hey, are we gonna eat that catfish and coffee there again?” Joe asked as they passed the Falls Hotel.

    Adam looked back at the hotel.  “Well, I suppose we can, if you like, although I thought we might try one of the other restaurants here in the park.  Most of them serve the same menu.”

    “Okay, I’ll trust you, big brother,” Joe said, puckish grin back in place.  “You sure were right about the first one— just don’t rub it in.”

    The smile with which Adam met this dictate bordered on wicked.  “I’ll try, but it is an almost irresistible temptation.”

    “Yeah?  Well, if you expect me to resist any temptations, you’d better set a good example,” Joe advised, impudent twinkle in his eye.

    Drawing in his cheeks, Adam puckered his lips and nodded as if in deep thought, but Joe could see the levity in his brother’s dark eyes.  They walked on a bit further, and Adam pointed to another restaurant.  “We might have supper here, but there’s one up ahead where I’d planned to eat our first meal.”

    “Still kind of early,” Joe commented.

    “I warned you it would be,” Adam chided, “so it’s your own fault if you’re still full from that rather sizeable breakfast you put away.”

    “I’ll make room,” Joe tittered, and Adam rolled his eyes, fully believing his brother meant every word.

    Leaving the town behind, they entered the park proper.  While Wissahickon Park included only a narrow strip, less than an eighth of a mile wide, on both sides of the river, it was one of the most beautiful sections of Fairmount.  Wissahickon Creek lay in a rocky ravine, with trees and vines thickly covering the steep sides up to the summit on either side.  In a dry season, such as this centennial summer had been, the waters were quiet and clear, trickling over rocks and pebbles with gentle, melodic splashes.  Little Joe’s eyes sparkled with delight in the sunlight reflected off the gurgling rill.  Lost in the rustic beauty of the scene, he felt a lump rise in his throat.  “Closest thing to home I’ve seen since we’ve been here.”

    Catching the slightly choked murmur, Adam congratulated himself on choosing the right activity for the day’s outing.  This is just what the kid needed.

    They came to an imposing three-story white building with porches on the lower two levels, nestled in trees within a stone’s toss of the creek.  A freestanding sign out front declared that it was the Maple Spring Hotel, so Adam and Joe climbed the steps beneath a striped awning that ran the width of the building and entered the dining room.  A middle-aged woman in a crisp white apron over a light blue seersucker dress seated them at a table with a good view of Wissahickon Creek through the front window.  “Catfish and coffee, gentlemen?” she asked with a pleasant smile.

    “Please, for both of us,” Adam said, adding after she left, “though I don’t know if you’ll be able to do justice to yours, little brother.”

    “Sure I will,” Joe assured him and, when the platters were placed before him, provided all the evidence his brother could need that he came equipped with hollow leg.  Despite having eaten a lighter breakfast than his younger brother, Adam still couldn’t keep pace with Joe’s rather remarkable appetite.  He wasn’t even sure Hoss could have.

    After dinner the two brothers stayed in the hotel to explore the proprietor’s collection of wildlife carved from laurel roots.  Little Joe was especially taken with a cunning pair of squirrels companionably sharing a meal of acorns.  “I’m gonna get this for Hoss,” he said, to the proprietor’s smiling satisfaction.

    “You don’t want to carry that all over the park,” Adam chided.

    When Joe started to put the carving back, the proprietor spoke up.  “I’ll be glad to keep the squirrels for you until this evening, young man, and you can pick them up on your way out of the park.”

    Joe’s countenance lighted up as if the noonday sun had suddenly come out from behind dark clouds.  “Hey, that would be great, Mr. . . .”

    “Smith, Joseph Smith, at your service.”

    Joe extended his hand.  “I’m a Joseph, too, Mr. Smith, Joe Cartwright of Nevada.”

    Smith shook the young man’s hand.  “Ah.  Here for the Centennial, of course, and since it’s closed today, you’re taking the opportunity to see our beautiful park.”

    “Precisely, sir,” Adam said.

    Joseph Smith shook his hand, as well.  “As you’re travelers from a distant place, let me give you a piece of advice.  The best way to see this section of the park would be to rent a bateau.  It’s the most convenient way to reach the west bank, and you can return it this evening when you pick up the squirrels.”

    Joe brightened at the idea of boating down the creek.  “Sounds like a good plan, Adam.”

    “Yes, it does,” Adam agreed.  “We’ll do as you suggest, Mr. Smith.”

    “Excellent!” Smith exclaimed.  “You’ll find a boat in the shed to your left as you leave the building.  Take any one you like, and be sure to pull in near the first bridge and take the path to Hermit’s Glen.  Quite a sight.”

    Adam thanked him and paid for the rental of the bateau, as well as a carving of a bird the proprietor identified as an eastern wood pewee.  “You’ll probably see some this afternoon,” Smith informed Adam, “since you’ll be on the creek.  They tend to stay close to water because they feed on the insects, and you won’t have a bit of trouble recognizing their song.  Sounds just like their name.”  He warbled an imitation that made both Cartwright brothers smile.

    As soon as Little Joe paid for his carving, he and Adam walked down to the shed, selected a bateau, carried it across the dirt path to the bank of Wissahickon Creek and slid it into the water.  When they were seated, facing each other, Adam handed his younger brother a set of oars and then leaned back, arms locked behind his neck.  “You’ve got energy to burn, sonny, so get to it.”

    “Hey, you should do your share,” Joe grumbled.

    “I have done my share,” Adam said, tilting his hat over his eyes.  “I paid for the boat.”

    Joe shrugged and pulled away from the bank.

    Adam didn’t stay in his relaxed position long, however.  Though he didn’t offer to take the oars, he soon sat up to enjoy the view, arms locked around his knees.  As his brother rowed them around a sharp bend to the west, he pointed to a promontory above them.  “Washington’s Rock.  The President used to go there when he needed to get away, back when Philadelphia was the capitol.”

    “Is that the guidebook talkin’ again?” Joe asked.

    Adam laughed.  “Not entirely.  I have been here before, kid.”

    “In Philadelphia?  I guess I should have known that.”

    Adam shrugged.  “No reason you should.  My trips to Philadelphia were just cultural outings, whenever I could find enough time and money to make the trip.  I probably wrote home about them, but it’s not the kind of thing a youngster would have remembered.”  He deliberately omitted any reference to the times he’d come through the city as a Federal soldier.  Those particular memories weren’t bad, but he didn’t want to give Little Joe any encouragement to probe deeper into ones that were.

    Joe grinned.  “Cultural outings, huh?  That what these city folks call rowing a boat?”

    Adam reached out a long, black-trousered leg and gave the boy’s shin a sharp tap with the top of his balmoral.  “The park was for relaxation—and for a reminder of home.”

    Joe smiled softly then.  “Yeah, about as close as you could get back here, I guess.”

    “Yeah.”  Adam gestured with his chin toward the right bank.  “Pull in over there, and we’ll tie up the boat for a while.”

    Understanding now that Adam was acquainted with the area, Joe simply did as he was told and waited expectantly to see what his brother wanted to show him.  Getting out of the boat, he followed Adam across a bridge to the west side of the creek and went up a tree-shaded lane into the woods.

    “This is the Hermit’s Glen Mr. Smith referred to.  A German man named John Kelpius and about forty of his followers, called the Hermits of the Ridge, used to live in the caves up here,” Adam explained.  As they came out into a clearing, he pointed to a gnarled old cedar.  “Kelpius is supposed to have planted that, and there, beneath it, you can still see some stones from the well he dug.”

    With a sweep of his arm, Adam gestured for Joe to turn right and follow the creek.  About a quarter mile from the bridge they had crossed, they came to a high bluff, from which a rock rose upward.  “Lovers’ Leap,” Adam said in answer to Joe’s inquiring look.

    “Let’s climb up to the top of the bluff,” Joe urged.

    Adam groaned.  “I thought this was supposed to be a day of rest!  Must you climb something every Sunday?”

    “Aw, come on, Adam,” Joe nagged.  “I just know it’ll be a great view.”

    “Oh, I hope so, little buddy.”  Shaking his head, Adam trudged up the path after his more energetic brother.

    Seeing Joe gaze at the rock towering above when they reached the bluff’s summit, Adam snagged his elbow.  “No.  We are absolutely not climbing that!”

    “No argument here, older brother,” Joe said, feeling a shiver rise up his spine.  Much as he relished a grand view, he wanted plenty of territory around him when he was up this high, and Lovers’ Leap looked precarious enough to have earned its name.  Leaning over to look at the gorge two hundred feet below, Joe felt his stomach leap into his throat and backed away as unobtrusively as he could.

    The boys returned to the creek, and following Adam’s instructions, Joe rowed another half mile upstream, where he pulled to the side once more.  He and Adam walked along a woodland path bordered with violets ‘til they came to a steep slope close to the river.  “Mom Rinkle’s Rock,” Adam said as they gazed at the precipice jutting up from the stream.  “According to legend, an old woman fell from there and floated out to sea.  People thought she was a witch because she drank dew from acorn cups and had an evil eye—and, well, perhaps because she survived the fall, if the story has any basis in truth.”

    Joe feigned a look of total shock.  “Why, Adam, I didn’t think you went in for superstitious claptrap like that.”

    Adam cleared his throat loudly.  “I don’t.  It’s just a story.  I thought you’d enjoy it.”

    Joe grinned and winked.  “I did.  I was just teasing.”

    A smile skewed to one side of Adam’s face.  “Ah, yes, your greatest talent.”  Noting the path that led up to the top of the precipice, he sighed.  “I suppose you have to climb this one, as well.”

    Joe took a careful look and gulped.  The path looked incredibly steep, the kind of place that always gave him the “crawly skin,” as Hoss called it, but he didn’t want to admit that weakness to his fearless older brother.  Pasting a challenging smirk on his face, he chirped back cheerily, “Why, of course, older brother.  After all, it’s probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to stand on the very spot that old witch lady fell off of.”

    Adam groaned, fighting down the temptation to push Joe over the edge for the criminally bad joke.  At least one mystery is solved, he decided, shaking his head.  I’ll never again ask myself how he can eat so heartily and never gain a pound; it’s obvious he needs fuel to expend this much energy.

    The path to the hilltop was not only steep, but strewn with loose rocks, acorns and broken twigs, as well.  Halfway up Adam slipped and fell to one knee.  Hearing the grunt of pain, Joe skidded swiftly back to his side.  “Hey, you okay?  We don’t really have to climb this if it’s too much for you, Adam.”

    Affecting insult, Adam glowered at his younger brother.  “Too much!  You never saw the day you could outwork—or out-climb me, youngster.”

    Joe grinned with false bravado.  “Prove it, then.  Race you to the top!”

    Adam grabbed him by the wrist.  “No racing, Joe.  The footing is treacherous, and I have no intention of spending the rest of my vacation tending your broken bones.”

    Joe laughed to hide his relief that Adam hadn’t taken him up on his impetuous challenge.  “Okay, no race, but you know I’d’ve beat you.”

    As punishment for that display of sass, Adam gave his brother a shove up the trail.  He was gratified to see, however, that Joe appeared to be watching his step, even though he did move faster than Adam thought completely wise.

    Naturally, Little Joe reached the summit first, and as he stood atop the most massive rock in the park, waving his hat wildly, with the wind ruffling his hair, he called out, “Hey, brother, wish you were here!”  He listened with obvious delight to the returning echo, almost as if Hoss were returning the cry.

    Adam draped an arm across Joe’s shoulders, in part to support himself after the tiring climb, but mostly to share the enjoyment of the moment.

    Joe looked up sheepishly.  “Silly thing to do, I guess, but I feel close to him out here in the woods.”

    “I’ve been thinking of him all day, too,” Adam admitted.  “Just something about the place.”

    “Yeah.  His kind of place—mine, too.”

    Adam chuckled.  “Well, don’t leave me out.  It was the peace of places like this that drew me back to the Ponderosa.”

    Joe’s eyes twinkled with mischief.  “Peace?  I thought you liked the hustle and bustle of city life.”

    “For pleasure and culture, yes,” Adam agreed.  He hesitated, and then continued, “But when your heart needs healing . . .”

    “Did yours?” Joe asked quietly, not wanting to rush his brother and cause him to slam shut the door he’d opened just a crack.  “Why?  The war?”

    Adam closed his eyes, as if the memories were still painful, and simply nodded.

    “You still don’t want to talk about it, do you?” Joe whispered, disappointed, but for once not taking it personally.

    Adam looked away.  “Not really.  Some parts of it are best left buried, I think, but I suppose I could . . . ”  He trailed off, his reluctance obvious.

    “No, that’s okay,” Joe said quickly.  “Not ‘til you’re ready.”  Will he ever be? he wondered sadly.

    Adam smiled softly as he ruffled his brother’s already windblown curls.  “Thanks, kid.  Back to the boat?”

    Joe nodded his agreement and followed Adam down to the Wissahickon again.  A short row upstream brought them to the entrance of Paper Mill Run.  It was only a small creek, but it joined the larger stream in a series of waterfalls, the final one a twenty-foot drop over dark shale-like rock.  Joe held the oars still and looked at the rushing water.  “Aw, that’s pretty.”

    “Umm hmm.  Historic, too,” Adam offered.  “Site of the first paper mill in America, established back in 1690.”

    Joe set the oars down and folded his arms across his chest.  “Now, brother, you said this was a day of rest, and there you go trying to make it a school day again.”

    “Okay, I’ll make you a bargain,” Adam chuckled.  “I won’t give you any more educational lectures if you don’t make me climb any more rocks.”

    Joe reached across the boat to shake Adam’s hand.  “Brother, you’ve got a deal!  I don’t really mind taking my lessons this way, though.”  He picked up the oars and began to row upstream again with strong, smooth strokes.

    After they’d glided another quarter mile, Adam pointed to another hilltop.  “There’s an old monastery and graveyard up there.  You want to climb up or go on to the caves?”

    Joe’s lip curled in distaste.  “Caves?  You know how I feel about going underground, Adam, but I don’t really want to do any more climbing, either.”

    “Oh, so there is an end to the boundless energy of youth!” Adam observed with a sardonic smile.

    Joe shrugged.  “I could do it, but I’d kind of like to stay in the boat awhile.”

    “Fine with me,” Adam said quickly.  “It’s about a mile and a half to the Pipe Bridge, which was completed six years ago.  I’ve heard it’s a beautiful structure, and I’d really like to observe that in some detail.”

    Joe crinkled his nose.  “Another bridge, huh?  Sounds educational to me, brother.”

“True, but for me, not you, buddy.”

    “I’m teasing, Adam, my greatest talent, remember?” Joe snickered.  “Look at your old bridge all you want.”  He rowed another mile or so, enjoying the birds twittering in the trees overhanging the creek and waving to a fisherman casting his line from the rockbound shore before coming to the sight Adam was eager to see.  Surprisingly, Joe also found this bridge interesting, for it was unlike any he had seen before.  From a distance its delicate framework looked like scalloped lace, but it was made entirely of iron pipes, except for the base of its piers, which Adam told him were set in masonry.

    They pulled to the side of the creek and got out of the boat, so Adam could take a closer look.  “It’s used to transport water to the reservoir at Germantown,” he further explained.  “See those two large pipes that form the top cord of the bridge?  Those carry the water.”

    “Uh-huh, real interesting,” Joe said.

    Adam laughed.  “All right, I get the message.  You’re bored with bridges.”

    Joe grinned back, but shook his head.  “Naw, it’s a nice bridge, Adam.  Just don’t take me as long to look at one as it does you.”

    “That’s because you don’t understand what you’re seeing,” Adam announced airily, and then smiled so Joe would know he was teasing.  “To reward your patience, my boy, we’ll move on to a sight more to your liking.”  His voice dropped, and he whispered in an eerie tone, “The Devil’s Pool.”

    Joe shook his fist in jest under Adam’s nose.  “Hey!  Are you calling me an imp?”

    Adam sported a mocking grin.  “I wasn’t, but if the description fits . . .”

    “Hey!”

    Adam laughed and pulled Joe by the arm.  “Come on.  You’ll be glad you did.”

    Walking about a hundred yards, they crossed a wooden bridge over Creshein Creek, a small tributary of the Wissahickon, and followed a short path to a basin surrounded by great masses of rock.  Long trunks of hemlock and pine thrust out from the darkness into the sunlight bathing the pool, creating a place of wild beauty, seemingly untouched by man.  “You’d never believe a big city was so close by, seeing this,” Joe said with admiration.  “Don’t see why they call it the Devil’s Pool, though.  Looks more like a piece of heaven to me.”

    Understanding his brother’s appreciation of the untamed splendor, Adam squeezed his shoulder.  “I think it’s the appearance at night that gives it that name.  The moonlight does strange things to all those tree limbs hanging over the pool.  It’s supposed to look like fairies dancing or maybe something more grotesque.”

    “Can we stay and see it?” Joe asked eagerly.

    Adam’s loud guffaws rang through the trees, frightening a red and black tanager from its nest.  “Don’t you ever think anything through, kid?” he asked when Joe stared at him in puzzlement.

    “I don’t know what you mean,” Joe muttered, brows coming together.

    “Which only proves my point,” Adam observed with a condescending smile.  “Obviously, we can’t stay here ‘til nightfall because we’re obligated to get the boat back to Maple Spring and pick up those carvings before then.”

    Joe’s face fell.  “Oh, yeah, I wasn’t thinking,” he mumbled, feeling foolish now that his error had been pointed out.  “Let’s get started back then.”  He turned his back on Adam and hurried down the path toward the boat.

    Only then did Adam realize that his brother was genuinely hurt.  Hurrying to catch up, he caught the boy’s elbow.  “Joe, I didn’t mean—”

    Joe jerked his arm free.  “Oh, yes, you did!”

    Adam cupped his hand behind Joe’s neck and pulled him closer.  “I’m sorry, Joe.  Let me make up for it, huh?”

    “How?”  Joe demanded.

    “There’s a hotel about a quarter mile further up.”  Adam rushed his words, feeling he had mere seconds to make things right with this touchy child.  “Let me buy you an ice to cool you down.”

    Joe exploded.  “I’m not Hoss, Adam!  It takes more than food to make it all better.”

    Taking a deep breath, Adam put an arm around his brother, finding the shoulders that usually yielded readily to an embrace rigid with offense.  “Come on, buddy,” he urged with all his persuasive powers.  “You’re hot and tired or you wouldn’t be reacting so strongly to a joke, although, admittedly, a bad one.  We’ve had a good day together, and I don’t want to see it end this way, do you?”

    He had touched the right nerve.  Joe relaxed, giving him a weak smile.  “No, and I would like something cool.  I’ll take you up on that ice.”

    “Fair enough,” Adam said, as he slipped his arm down to Joe’s waist and turned him back toward Devil’s Pool.

    The valley widened as they continued north, the shadows receded, and the sun shone hot, bringing beads of sweat to both their faces.  Coming to a stone bridge with only one arch, Adam indicated that they needed to cross, and when they did, the Valley Green Hotel came almost immediately into sight.

    The establishment presented a far less inviting front than had the hotel at which the Cartwright brothers had eaten dinner.  Only two stories tall, it had none of the elegance of the Maple Spring Hotel, but the ices were cool and flavorful.  Refreshed and in good humor once again, Joe stepped out onto the roofed porch and leaned against one of its narrow supports to admire the view of the valley.

    “There’s a bit more of Wissahickon Park we haven’t seen,” Adam said, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother, “but I think it’s time we headed back.”

    “We gonna eat at Maple Spring again?” Joe asked.

    “I’d thought about Wissahickon Hall, but I’ll let you pick, buddy.”  He had, of course, already pointed out that hotel when they came through town that morning, but he didn’t want to risk offending his volatile little brother again by reminding him of something else the boy had obviously forgotten.

    The flush on Joe’s face revealed that he’d realized his own error, but sensing that Adam was trying to make peace, Joe made a similar effort.  “Naw, let’s try a new one.  That way we can decide who really makes the best catfish and coffee on the Wissahickon.”

    “All right,” Adam said with a congenial smile.  “We’ll do just that.”  In a further effort to appease his little brother, he took the oars, once he and Joe were back in the bateau.  It was a somewhat empty gesture, since there wouldn’t be as much rowing to do, going downstream.  To Joe, though, it was further proof that his big brother was trying to ease the hurt he had inadvertently caused, and the gesture touched him.

    After a relaxing float down the Wissahickon, the brothers enjoyed another filling meal of catfish and coffee, but when it came time to discuss which hotel served the meal in the finest fashion, they typically voted for contradictory choices.  They were able to laugh at their difference of opinion, however, and good humor prevailed as they caught a horse car back to the hotel and turned in early, wanting to be well rested for the excitement of the morrow.
 

    Dressed in their finest, the Cartwright brothers pressed their way through the multitude packing Second Street and all other roads leading to Christ Church.  Though the doors of the church were not yet open, people were crowding the entrance, and when the chimes rang out and the doors swung back, they pushed in, hurrying to find a place to sit in the few pews not already filled by regular worshippers.  Adam and Joe squeezed into one of the high, old-fashioned pews near the back, where they were packed close as sardines in a tin, but at least they got a seat.  Those not so fortunate resorted to sitting on the stairways leading up to the galleries.  Once seated, however, everyone was silent, waiting reverently for the service to begin.

    A long procession of bishops and lesser clerics moved up the aisle as the organ began to play.  Once the clergymen were in place, the choir started to sing John Greenleaf Whittier’s “Centennial Hymn.”  It was the third time the Cartwright brothers had heard the same song, but nothing could have seemed more appropriate to the occasion than its stirring words:

Our fathers’ God! From out whose hand
The centuries fall like grains of sand,
We meet today, united, free,
And loyal to our land and Thee,
To thank Thee for the era done,
And trust Thee for the opening one.

    Adam’s eyes opened and he cocked his head to gaze, puzzled, at the brimming emerald eyes.  He didn’t really understand what had so moved his younger brother—perhaps just the emotion of the moment—but he pressed the slender hand resting in his to give Joe the support he seemed to need.  By the time the service ended, the moment was forgotten, and neither Adam nor Joe mentioned it.  There was far too much else to occupy their minds as the nation’s grandest birthday party began.

    When the Cartwrights had returned to the Washington Hotel the previous night, they had found a message from Connecticut Commissioner Saul Breckenridge, inviting them to a reception for Connecticut citizens on Monday afternoon.  While, technically, neither Adam nor Joe fit that description, Breckenridge had urged them to come, since he’d gotten word that there would be at least a few of Adam’s old acquaintances in attendance.  Joe felt a little hesitant about spending an afternoon in a roomful of sophisticated strangers, but Adam refused to go without him, making reference to what had happened the last time he left his younger brother alone in Philadelphia.  With all the businesses closed, there wasn’t much else for Joe to do, anyway, so he tagged along without further argument, determined to make the best of it.

    Many other states and organizations were holding receptions that afternoon, as well, so the horse cars again were crowded, with people hanging on from all sides.  The Cartwright brothers again spent the thirty-minute ride out to the Centennial grounds standing up, gallantly giving their seats to two grateful middle-aged ladies.

    Adam having bluntly rejected his request to visit the encampment of the West Point Cadets on the Exposition grounds while Adam met his friends, Joe dutifully trailed into the Connecticut House behind his brother.  As Breckenridge’s note had informed them, a buffet was spread for all guests, and Joe concentrated on filling his plate, while Adam searched the room for familiar faces.  Finishing the food, Joe grabbed a cup of punch and wandered the room, examining once more the colonial artifacts and firearms he’d seen on their first visit; then, bored, he went into the gentlemen’s parlor and stretched out on one of the settees.

    “Oh, there you are,” Adam said when he peeked in a couple of hours later.  “You should have told me where you’d be, Joe.  I was afraid you’d taken off for parts unknown.”

    “You said I couldn’t, remember?” Joe grunted.  Should’ve done it, anyway, since that’s what he expected; don’t look like he missed me none ‘til he was ready to leave.

    Adam leaned against the doorjamb.  “Oh, and you can always be counted on to do exactly as you’re told, can’t you?”

    Joe scowled.  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

    “Yes, you are,” Adam acknowledged, “and I know it hasn’t been the most interesting afternoon for you.  You ready to head back to the hotel?”

    Joe practically jumped to his feet.  “Sure am!”

    Adam smiled and gestured for Joe to follow him.

    “Did you see a lot of old friends?” Joe asked as they walked back to Elm Street to catch a streetcar.

    “Several,” Adam said.  “It was a most enjoyable afternoon for me.  Sorry if you were bored, kid, but I do appreciate your cooperation.”

    “Aw, that’s okay.  At least, the food was good!”

    Adam laughed as he jumped onto the streetcar and held out a hand to his younger brother.  There weren’t as many people heading back into the city at that time, so both of them found a seat for the return trip.

    A festive mood prevailed in the streets as the Cartwright brothers walked the block from the streetcar stop to their hotel, and Joe was all for checking out the source of the excitement.  Adam immediately squashed that idea.  “We’ll be up late, with the torchlight parade starting at 8:30, so we need to rest up this afternoon.”

    “I’m rested up,” Joe argued.

    Recognizing the reference to the time his younger brother had spent reclining in the gentlemen’s parlor of the Connecticut House, Adam chuckled.  “You probably are, but I’ve been on my feet most of the afternoon, and you are not going out without me.”

    “What am I supposed to do up in that hotel room for hours?” Joe whined.

    “Read a good book, improve your mind,” Adam suggested.  “It’s only a couple of hours ‘til suppertime.  Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

    Scorning Adam’s suggestion of reading a book, mostly because he’d already finished the ones he had available and didn’t think it likely that his brother had anything interesting to borrow, Joe spent the time perusing that morning’s edition of the Philadelphia Public Ledger.  The newspaper gave a full description of activities planned for that day and the next, and Joe gave his greatest attention to the articles concerning the celebration of the Glorious Fourth.  The time passed surprisingly quickly, and soon Adam was saying that it was time to go downstairs for supper.

    Due to the crowds, many of the items on the menu were out of stock, but the Cartwright brothers found plenty still available to sustain even Joe’s appetite and returned to their rooms after finishing the meal to wait for darkness to fall.  “We’ll just watch the parade from the window,” Adam said as he pulled off his crimson cravat.

    “Nothing doing!” Joe screeched.  “I’ve been cooped up in this room all day, and I’m not staying up here for that, too!”

    “Joe, be reasonable,” Adam urged.  “The parade will pass right beneath us; you’ll have a great view from up here—without being trampled.”  He added what he thought would be the best selling point.  “And since no one will be seeing you, you can get out of your suit and into something more comfortable.”

    Joe’s stance and his expression, feet firmly planted shoulder-width apart and arms folded, with rigid jaw and firm frown, were the picture of stubborn determination.  “Stay up here if you’re scared, big brother, but I’m gonna be down where the excitement is, not just watching it like some old man in a rocking chair.”

    Adam was sorely tempted to challenge the boy’s mocking defiance, but he suddenly remembered that Joe had already stuck with him through a lengthy church service, a boring reception and several hours in the hotel room.  In all fairness, he couldn’t ask more of a kid as energetic as his younger brother.  Though Adam did not want to join the crushing crowd, he was unwilling to let Joe enter it alone, so he sighed and put his tie back on.

    Joe bounded down the stairs, and for once Adam didn’t insist on using the elevator, considering it wise to let his brother work off some of that excess energy in a safe manner.  When Joe bounded across the lobby for the front door, however, Adam charged forward and grabbed his elbow.  “Stay with me,” he ordered tersely.

    “Okay,” Joe said, starting forward again.  “Let’s go.”

    Still clinging to the boy’s elbow, Adam was dragged through the door and onto a street thronged with excited celebrators.  Colored lanterns had been strung along Chestnut Street and Broad Street, as well, according to the Public Ledger, for the parade would actually start there.  As it was timed to arrive in front of Independence Hall at midnight, neither Adam nor Joe saw any marchers for quite some time after the parade actually started.  What Adam did see was people perched at every window, door step and roof in sight, and while he wished he were among them, Little Joe obviously preferred mingling with the crowd covering every square inch of the street along both sides of the parade route.

    Craning his neck, practically climbing onto the shoulders of his older brother, Joe at last yelled that he’d seen the parade turn onto Chestnut.  As the marchers were still several blocks away, they looked like stick figures in the distance, but they slowly came close enough to be distinguishable as real men, fireworks being set off and cheers going up from the multitude lining the street as each group passed.  First in line were deputations representing various trades of the city, followed by the Centennial Commissioners from the foreign countries participating in the Exposition.  Behind them marched the governors of the states of the Union and officers of the United States Army and Navy.  Representatives from civic and political associations filed past next, with the officers of foreign men-of-war who were visiting the city bringing up the rear.

    Adam and Joe fell in with the rest of the throng streaming toward Independence Square, where a spotlight bathed the clocks on each side of the steeple in a golden glow of expectation.  One hundred thousand people fell silent as the hands of the clock inched the final minutes toward midnight, and when they both pointed straight up, the new State House bell began to toll thirteen peals.  Almost before the final one faded away, the crowd let loose a mighty shout to welcome in the one hundredth birthday of the United States of America, and hundreds of hats, Joe’s included, flew into the air with reckless abandon.  Musicians and singers stationed on stands in the square burst into “The Star Spangled Banner,” and everyone in Independence Square joined in.

    Adam and Joe stood with arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, singing as loudly as they could, but neither could distinguish the other’s voice.  It wasn’t just the loud singing of their neighbors drowning them out, though.  Every bell and steam whistle in the city had added its voice to the general cacophony at the stroke of midnight, and fireworks and discharging firearms contributed to the hubbub.  No one seemed to mind, though, and when the first excitement died down a bit, the chorus began to sing the “Doxology,” with the crowd once more singing along.  From then until about two in the morning, the orchestra continued to play patriotic songs as total strangers thumped one another on the back and shouted congratulations to the nation and all her citizens.

    Adam had tried to draw his brother back to the hotel room after the midnight festivities, but Joe was still brimming with vitality and begged to stay a little longer.  Adam gave in with only slight reluctance, for he, too, had become caught up in the excitement all America was sharing that night.  After all, he reminded himself, this is the reason I chose to come at this particular time, and he smiled at the enthusiastic little brother who had brought him back to that original purpose.

    When the music ended and the orchestra began to pack up their instruments, Adam took firm hold on his brother’s arm and insisted that it was time to turn in.  “You’ve partied long enough, kid, and the activities start early in the morning.”

    Realizing that he did need some sleep, Joe reluctantly agreed and followed Adam back to their hotel room, turning in immediately.  He found it hard to doze off, however, for he knew that the following day’s celebration would be even bigger.

    Joe woke with a start a scant three hours later when the thunder of cannon from the Navy Yard, Fairmount Heights and the Swedish, Brazilian and American war vessels docked in the Delaware River saluted the dawn of Independence Day, 1876.  Bells tolled from every steeple in Philadelphia, and steam whistles and foghorns echoed their joyous clamor.  Eyelids heavy, Joe staggered into Adam’s room.  “I guess it’s time to rise and shine, huh?”

    Moaning in joint commiseration, Adam struggled to prop himself up from the mattress on reluctant elbows.  “So it would appear.  I knew I’d regret letting you keep me up all night.”

    “It’s not my fault,” Joe protested, hand pressed to his heart.  “Nobody forced you to stay up, Adam.”

    Adam dragged himself upright, swung his legs over the bed and sat there, raking his fingers through his thick, black hair.  “Just the responsibility of keeping you out of trouble, kid.”

    “I didn’t get in any trouble,” Joe reminded him curtly.

    Adam favored his brother with a sour smile.  “Which only serves to prove that I did my job well.”  It was a line he found frequent occasion to use on his little brother, and he laughed at the scowl with which Joe met the all-too-familiar taunt.  “Scurry into your clothes, little fellow,” he added with his most big-brotherly voice, “if you want to catch a bite of breakfast before the parade begins.”

    “That’s not ‘til 8:30,” Joe argued.

    Adam stood and gave his brother a light shove toward the door.  “Yes, but the parade starts forming at seven, and since I assume you’ll insist on being right in the thick of things, you’ll want to get down on the street early enough to find a decent spot.  So, as I said, little boy, scurry, scurry.”  He clapped his hands for emphasis.

    Resenting the baby talk, even though he knew it was in jest, Joe scowled more fiercely.  Being hungry, however, and realizing that there would be little time to eat later, he followed his older brother’s instructions without argument.

    After a quick and scanty breakfast, due to the decreasing choices available, Adam and Joe made their way out onto the street and took up a position close to the huge triumphal arch straddling Chestnut.  In it, each state of the Union was represented by a stone engraved with its name, from which flew a pennant of red, white and blue.  Hanging from the top of the arch, beneath which the members of the parade would march, a sign proclaimed, “In the course of human events.”

    By the time the parade was scheduled to start, Little Joe had definitely seen the wisdom of his older brother’s advice to find a place early.  Later reports would reveal that five hundred thousand people teemed the streets that day.  Joe didn’t know that, of course; he only knew that the crowd was far too numerous to count—much larger than the excited throng the night before and definitely larger than any group of people he’d ever been part of in all his nineteen years.

    As the parade began, the Centennial Legion, with detachments from each of the thirteen original colonies, in token of a Union restored and citizens reunited, took a prominent place in the line moving down Chestnut Street to Independence Hall.  This troop of ten thousand soldiers, veterans of both the Confederate and Union armies, was commanded by former Confederate General Henry Heth of Virginia, under overall command of General John Frederick Hartranft, also a veteran of the Civil War and presently Governor of Pennsylvania.  Still dark-haired and straight-backed eleven years after the war’s end, the Grand Army of the Republic filed past, to the First Virginia Regimental Band’s renditions of “My Maryland” and “Dixie.”  Seeing them together, each marching to the other side’s music, Adam felt the hard crust covering his heart begin to crack, and mist fogged his eyes as chips of bitter memories flaked free.

    Intending to ask if Adam had known the Governor while he was in the service, Joe turned toward his brother, and deep furrows of concern plowed across his forehead when he saw his brother’s face.  “You okay, Adam?”

    Momentarily unable to speak, Adam nodded, but needing some outlet for the emotions surging through him, he pulled his younger brother into a one-armed embrace.  “I’m fine, buddy,” he said, close to Joe’s ear, so he could be heard.  “I’m more than fine.  I’m—how do I even tell you what I’m feeling, seeing those men walking side by side with men they once fought against so furiously, with such acrid anger?”

    Wanting to communicate his support, Joe circled his brother’s waist and touched his head to Adam’s shoulder.  He realized that he would probably never fully comprehend either what Adam had gone through during the war or what moments like this meant to him, but pride and admiration and outright love flooded his heart for this older brother, so different from himself in temperament and experience.  Different as North and South, he thought, understanding with sudden intuition that, just like these former foes, he and Adam would have to make a conscious decision to accept one another and live in unity.  Surely, if people that different could do it, brothers who shared as much as he and Adam could, too.

    Several large wagons, fitted up with scenes of Army life, rolled past.  One presented thirteen miniature tents with typical camp equipment, while another showed a large tent with two soldiers forming a tableau of life in a field camp.  “Guess that all looks pretty familiar to you, huh, Adam?” Joe suggested.

    Adam’s smile was the warmest Joe had ever seen cross his brother’s face when the war was mentioned.  “Yeah, a lot of memories rush back when I see scenes like those.”

    “Good or bad?” Joe asked so softly that Adam barely heard him above the music of a band down the street.

    “Both,” Adam admitted, but the bad memories didn’t seem to haunt him today.  “The tedium of camp life drove me wild at times,” he continued, “but the companionship of my comrades in arms—I’ve never experienced anything like it elsewhere, not even in college, which was a small, closed society, too.  Sharing hard times with someone just seems to forge a firmer bond than anything else can.”

    Just then a carriage of disabled veterans came into view, a poignant reminder of the price paid for the peace they now found so inspiring.  “There’s some fellows that look like they know about hard times,” Joe whispered reverently.

    “The hardest—and these are the survivors.”  Adam shook his head, the dark clouds hovering near once more.  “Half a million wounded, and sixty thousand died of their wounds, maybe six times as many from disease.  Some men came out of battle a lot worse—and others not at all.”

    “And some a lot better, thank God!” Joe cried, looking directly into his brother’s face.

    Realizing that Joe was expressing gratitude for the spared life of his older brother, Adam nodded and, characteristically, looked for some way to distract the boy from the intense emotion, which Joe showed so openly and Adam fought so desperately to hide.  “Let’s move close to the stand,” he suggested.  “General Sherman’s going to review the troops.”

    “Okay,” Joe agreed, eager to see everything that was happening at the big birthday party for the nation and especially keen to get a closer look at the famous Civil War general.

    General Sherman and the Secretary of War, with a host of other dignitaries from both home and abroad, watched reverently as the troops filed before them, each saluting as they passed.  Governors of several states and General Hawley, President of the Centennial Commission, paid homage to the men in uniform, and such guests as sixteen-year-old Prince Oscar of Sweden and Lieutenant-General Saigo of the Imperial forces of Japan also showed respect to the veterans, the soldiers currently serving in the United States Army and the West Point Cadets, the army of the future.

    The Cartwright brothers got as close as they could, but it was no small task, given the crowd in the streets.  Though they were far back, Adam pointed out a couple of distant figures he didn’t think his younger brother would recognize, despite pictures printed in newspapers across America during this election year.  “Those are the Presidential candidates, Samuel Tilden and Rutherford B. Hayes.”

    “You decided who you’re gonna vote for yet?” Joe asked.

    “Not yet,” Adam admitted, “although I’m leaning toward Tilden.  Considering the corruption of the current administration, I think we’re due for a change of party, although Hayes promises reform, if he’s elected.”

    “Pa’s Republican;” Joe stated, adding with firm assurance, “he’ll vote for Hayes.”

    Adam waved the conclusion aside.  “That allegiance was born during the war years, but Pa believes in voting the man, not the party.”

    Joe grinned.  “So he wouldn’t vote against Hayes just ‘cause we’re ‘due for a change.’”

    Adam had to laugh.  “No, I guess he wouldn’t.  Maybe I’d better rethink that position.  I do believe it will be a close race, largely based on sectional differences.  We still have a long way to go to heal all the wounds of the Civil War, buddy.”

    The parade ended sooner than expected, for the route had been shortened, due to the extreme heat of the day.  Though it was only ten o’clock, the temperature was approaching ninety degrees, but not even the oppressive heat could flag the patriotic spirit prevalent that day.  Adam and Joe, in company with hundreds of thousands of fellow citizens, pressed toward Independence Square.  They made it and even had a decent view of the ceremonial platform on the north side of the Square, no mean feat, considering streets so jammed that a number of those who had marched in the parade never arrived.

    Cheers went up as prominent and popular personages took their place on the canvas-covered wooden platform, one of the loudest greeting the Emperor of Brazil, Dom Pedro.  The only reigning member of royalty who had ever set foot in the United States, the little man had made himself beloved to the American people by his humble manners and obvious admiration for the country.  Vice-president Thomas Ferry was also in attendance, but noticeably missing was the beleaguered President Grant, whose administration had been struck by one scandal after another in recent months.  Rumbles passing through the crowd openly criticized the sitting President for his lack of patriotic zeal, though when Little Joe started to chime in with a similar opinion, Adam clamped the boy’s biceps in an iron grip.  “Don’t judge a man without knowing the facts,” he said sternly.  “Grant was here for the opening ceremonies back in May, and there may be good reason for his not coming today—ill health, pressures of the office, personal responsibilities.  You don’t really know why he’s not here, do you, boy?”

    Realizing that he’d been guilty of convicting a man without hearing his side of the story, something he personally resented when it happened to him, Joe bit his lip.  “No, sir.  Sorry, Adam.”

    Adam nodded his acceptance of the apology.  Though he knew his younger brother had only become caught up in what was going on around him and, at least, had the excuse of youth for doing so, Adam felt a strong responsibility to steer the boy aright.  Today, however, was not a day for criticism, either of youngsters or politicians.  It was a day for celebration, and as clocks around the city struck the quarter hour past ten, General Hawley signaled for the orchestra to begin playing.

    After a number of patriotic songs had been rendered, Hawley introduced Thomas Ferry, the acting Vice-president since the death of Henry Wilson the previous year.  After a few brief remarks Ferry presented the Right Reverend William Bacon Stevens, Protestant Episcopal Bishop of Pennsylvania, calling him the ecclesiastical successor to the first chaplain of the Continental Congress.  Dressed in canonical robes, prayer book in hand, the bishop led a solemn and stirring prayer, as the audience stood, hats in hand, heads bowed in silent reverence.

    Following the prayer, a hymn, “Welcome to All Nations,” with lyrics by Oliver Wendell Holmes, was sung by a chorus of five hundred voices, and then Richard Henry Lee, namesake grandson of one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, approached the podium, which was near the ground because the platform sloped to the front.  As he started to read from the original document, now creased and discolored with age, the crowd could not contain its enthusiasm, and the square exploded with resounding cheers, Little Joe waving his hat and hollering along with the rest.

    While Adam’s dignity would not permit him to join in, he saw no reason to curb the boy’s enthusiasm.  I’m the one with the problem; he’s fitting right in today, he realized, and in that moment Adam made the kind of impulsive decision for which his younger brother was justly famous.  Removing his black hat and throwing dignity to the winds, he, too, began to wave wildly and cheer loudly, his heart bursting with the sudden sense of freedom.

    Joe flashed a broad grin when his sedate older brother cut loose, as he so rarely did.  “That’s the spirit, brother!” Joe cried.

    Lee raised the Declaration and again prepared to read.  “Turn it around!” came a loud cry from the audience, echoed by countless more, and Lee proudly obliged, holding the revered, but crumbling document in the simple frame aloft for all to see.  Then he began again to read the immortal words, and all within the bounds of Independence Square listened in hushed reverence.

    As Lee finished reading, five women in black silk dresses approached the platform with bold determination.  Their entrance at first went unnoticed because the attention of the audience was focused on the orchestra as it prepared to play, but the shocked faces of platform officials soon communicated that this intrusion was not part of the program planned for the morning.  “Susan B. Anthony and her suffragette hussies,” a man near the Cartwright brothers hissed.  “What’s she doing here?”

    Susan B. Anthony calmly approached Vice-president Ferry and handed him a rolled document, stating simply that it was a declaration of the rights of women.  Ferry paled, but his customary courtesy made him bow automatically, and he received the scroll without a word.  Then Miss Anthony and her four followers made their way back down the aisle, passing out copies of the women’s declaration to all who wanted them.  Men leaped onto their chairs, waving their hands to get a copy, and to Joe’s gape-mouthed shock, his older brother suddenly charged forward, pushing men aside to get one for himself as General Hawley shouted for order.  Cutting loose with a cheer was one thing, but this was . . . Joe had no words to describe how horrified he was to see his older brother chasing down suffragettes. If I’d done anything like what those women just did, Adam would have lambasted me—and look at him now, running right into the middle of the fracas!

    When Adam returned to his side, Joe eyed him with deep disapproval.  “Joe, they had to,” Adam explained quickly.  “They’d already asked permission to present their declaration today—just present it, not read it—but none of the men in charge would grant them even that much consideration.”

    “Don’t make it right to horn in where you’re not wanted.”  Enjoying the reversal of their usual roles, Joe folded his arms and shook his head in tight-lipped reproof.  “Maybe you want women to get the vote, Adam, but I got my doubts about them knowing enough to vote right.”

    “You tell him, young fellow,” a bystander tossed in.

     “I’ve got the same doubts about you, little buddy, but I wouldn’t deprive you of the franchise,” Adam snorted sarcastically.  “Women have as much right to representation as men.”

    “You’re crazy, mister,” their opinionated neighbor scoffed.  “Your ‘little buddy’ there’s got more sense in his little finger than—”

    “Ain’t it the truth?” Joe cackled, mostly to cover his embarrassment at having anyone other than Adam call him by that pet name.  Though he wasn’t ready to admit it, Adam’s staunch defense of the ladies was making him less sure of his own conviction.  Maybe he shouldn’t be prejudging them any more than Hayes or Tilden or President Grant.  Maybe, when Adam wasn’t looking, he might sneak a peek at that women’s declaration of independence and see for himself.

    Joe’s infectious laugh, met with smiles from onlookers and a chuck under the chin from Adam, cleared the air, and the suffragettes’ intrusion was forgotten as the eighty-piece orchestra finally began to play “A Greeting from Brazil,” composed at the special request of the Emperor.  Because of Dom Pedro’s popularity, the anthem was so well received that it was repeated.  Then Bayard Taylor, the poet of the day, recited “The National Ode,” and a chorus was sung before the Honorable William M. Evarts of New York presented his oration, a lecture reviewing the lessons of the past and emphasizing America’s great contributions to the world.

    At its conclusion, “The Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s Messiah was sung, and Joe was surprised to hear his brother, obviously from memory, join in the complicated counterpoint.  He’d always admired Adam’s voice, but rarely had he heard it sound so triumphant.  Probably sang this kind of thing all the time when he was living back here, Joe mused. Bet he misses it.

    As the song ended, the Vice-president requested that everyone join him in reciting the One Hundredth Psalm, and this time even Joe spoke the words from memory, gladly obeying the Scriptural command to “make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.”  That’s what we’ve been doing all day, Joe decided, grinning at his older brother, who, for once, had been a willing participant in joyful noise.

    Arm in arm, the two brothers returned to their hotel, heading immediately for the dining room.  Arriving at the entrance, however, they found their way blocked by a waiter in black vest and white shirt, apron tied about his waist.  “Gentlemen, I’m sorry, but the dining room is closed.”

    “It doesn’t close ‘til two o’clock,” Joe protested.

    “Normally,” the waiter admitted.  “My regrets, sir, but we have no more food.  The crowds, you know.  We thought we’d prepared sufficiently, but the demand has been unprecedented—and unforeseeable.”

    “Understood,” Adam said, pulling Joe away.  “Let’s try another restaurant, but quickly, kid, or we’re likely to hear this sad tale again,” he whispered.

    Joe nodded in complete compliance and strode briskly for the front door.  He and Adam didn’t move fast enough, however, for at the next three businesses they visited, the sad tale was repeated in almost identical words.  “It’s hopeless,” Adam sighed.  “I guess we go without dinner today.”

    Joe licked his lower lip hesitantly.  “I might have an idea where we could find something, but you probably won’t like it.”

    “Beggars can’t be choosers today,” Adam grunted, “though I can’t imagine a restaurant in Philadelphia that you know about and I don’t.”

    “Not a restaurant,” Joe said hurriedly.  “They’re all full, but I saw all kinds of food booths when I—when I took off to Shantyville.”

    Adam groaned.  “That’s your idea?  That awful—”

    “Hey, it’s food,” Joe argued, “and maybe folks won’t be as likely to think of looking there.”

    “Maybe not,” Adam conceded with a shake of his head, “since the idea does have ‘Joe Cartwright’ written all over it.  We’re only going there to eat, though.  Don’t you even think about giving me the slip and having some more ‘fun’ like you did the other night.”

    “Can’t you ever let anything go?” Joe complained, moping.  “I give you my word, I’ll stick right to your side.”

    “See that you do,” Adam ordered.

    They were only about a block from a streetcar stop, so they jogged over as fast as their legs could trot and clambered up onto the roof of the car, the only place left on the overcrowded vehicle.  With a forlorn gaze at the competition, Adam began to wonder if even the booths of Shantyville would have a bite to spare by the time he and Joe got there.

    The ramshackle area across from the Centennial grounds was packed with people, too, but the Cartwrights did manage to find something to eat, although the meal was quite a hodgepodge of snacks.  Not deeming it wise to pass up any opportunity on this crazy day, they snatched up the first food they found, bologna sausage and hot roasted potatoes.  Then they grazed through other possibilities, including pie and lemonade, and even laid in a couple of bags of peanuts, along with some apples and oranges, in the likely event that food would be even scarcer by suppertime.

    Scorning the menageries and freak shows, Adam did condescend to a contest with his brother at one of the shooting galleries, since they had time to kill before the fireworks that night.  Adam won the first match and Joe the second, and the tie, of course, demanded a third round, much to the chagrin of the man running the booth.  He sincerely wished both of these crack shots would leave the area before they wiped him out of the Centennial souvenirs that served as prizes.  Both Cartwrights hit every target in the third round, and the grim-faced caretaker handed each a loaded rifle for a fourth attack on the moving targets.  Adam again hit every one, and while Joe did, too, one of his shots merely glanced off the edge of one target without knocking it over.    “I guess you win,” Joe conceded.

    “Not by much, kid.  Nice shooting,” Adam praised, handing Joe the bookmarks and badges he’d won.  “Send them home to your friends,” he said in answer to his brother’s questioning look.

    “Thanks,” Joe said and tucked the trinkets inside his jacket pocket.

    It was a good thing they had purchased food when they could, for by suppertime not a scrap of bread could be found anywhere in Philadelphia.  After wandering through Shantyville until its scant pleasures held no more attraction, Adam and Joe perched on the banks of the Schuylkill River, nibbling roasted peanuts as they watched the boats glide past.  Some were racing boats, manned by crews in crimson, blue or cream uniforms, others recreational vessels shaded by striped awnings and some rowboats with only two passengers, one dressed in lace-edged muslin and shaded by a frilly umbrella good for nothing else.  Joe gazed at the young men rowing those small craft with undisguised envy.

    Slowly the sun began to sink below the western horizon, bathing the riverbank in a warm ginger glow.  As the daylight faded, the population of the riverbank grew proportionately, everyone feeling that to be the best place to view the fireworks display to be presented by the municipal authorities.  When the darkness was full, rockets and Roman candles illuminated the sky, and each burst of colored light was echoed with jubilant cheers and thunderous applause.  To Adam, though, the best show of all was his exuberant little brother— whistling, stamping his feet, clapping and crying his rapture aloud to the world.

    By the time they returned to the Washington Hotel, Adam was exhausted and ready for bed, but Little Joe was still wound up, unwilling to see so satisfying a day end.  Only one thing could make it more perfect for him, and since Adam had seemed more open that morning, Joe decided to risk nudging a toe in that crack in the door of his brother’s hidden past.  “Adam, you think you’ll ever be ready to tell me about how it was back then?” he asked cautiously.

    “Back then?” Adam asked, certain he knew what Joe meant and wanting to forestall confrontation.

    “The war,” Joe said simply.

    Adam exhaled slowly, wearily.  “Joe, I’m tired.  Some other time.”

    “That’s what you always say!” Joe snapped.  “Why don’t you just admit you don’t trust me?  You never have.”

    Adam took another deep breath, fighting for control.  He didn’t want to hurt Joe again; on the other hand, he was getting tired of the endless questions, tired of eternally treading on eggshells with this kid who just wouldn’t take no for an answer.  “It’s not a matter of trust.  It’s just not easy to talk about.”

    “It would be to Hoss, wouldn’t it?”  Joe’s tone was raw, harsh, openly accusing.

    Adam shrugged.  “Easier, yes, but not easy.  Can’t you understand that there are things that happened ‘back then' that I want to forget?”

    This time when Joe spoke, his voice was soft, gentle with compassion, but still firm in his intent.  “Can you, Adam?  Or does keeping them inside just keep them hurting long past the time they should have stopped?  I’m not a kid anymore, Adam.  I know you think I am, but I’m not.  Maybe, just maybe, I could help, if you’d let me in.”

    The idea of unburdening himself to his baby brother, of all people, struck Adam as ludicrous, but he didn’t really feel like laughing.  “Well, I suppose there are some things I could share,” he hedged, “to help you understand that era of American history a bit better.”  The minute the words left his mouth, Adam realized they were the wrong ones, and Joe’s instant explosion only confirmed what his older brother instinctively knew.

    “I’m not interested in another lesson in American history, Adam!” Little Joe shouted.  “It’s your history I want to know about!”

    Adam surrendered in defeat.  “All right, all right.  I’ll try, but does it have to be tonight?”

    “Forget it, brother,” Joe snapped bitterly.  “I won’t bother you about your precious secrets ever again.”  He stormed toward his bedroom.

    Wearily rising from the armchair, Adam moved toward his brother.  “Joe, wait.”  Loud as a firecracker, the door slammed shut.  Adam sighed and cast pleading eyes to the ceiling.  Would one conflict-free day be too much to ask—just one?  Too tired to think, he went to bed, hoping the problem with simply disappear with the morning, as Joe’s furies so often did.

    Little Joe lay staring at the ceiling a long time, his thoughts too tumultuous to even consider sleep.  He hadn’t meant to explode at Adam and already felt profoundly ashamed of the angry words.  Just a couple of days before he’d promised his older brother patience, promised he wouldn’t prod until Adam was ready, and now he’d gone back on his word and rebuilt the barrier between them.  He was disgusted with himself, but still broiling with bitterness and resentment toward his brother, too.  Was it really too much to ask, just to be part of Adam’s life?

    Joe got up and walked to the open window, hoping for a breath of air, but there was none—and no hope of Adam’s ever sharing his heart, either.  He’ll never feel about me the way he does Pa or Hoss, but couldn’t he give me just a little? Joe asked himself as he gazed sadly down at the street that had been the scene of so much unbridled joy earlier in the day.  The answer, he was certain, was no, but he made himself a firm promise and prayed he’d have the strength of mind and purpose to carry it out.  Never again would he ask Adam to share anything whatsoever with him.  He crawled back into bed, knowing he’d never have the kind of relationship with his oldest brother than he yearned for, but at least Adam would get what he wanted—a little brother who had learned to leave him alone.

    Adam stared at his brother’s closed door, pondering what to do.  Ordinarily, Joe would have, at least, made an appearance by this time, and if he hadn’t, Adam would have simply barged in and rousted him out.  Today, however, he preferred to let Joe take his time, hoping the extra sleep would improve his mood.  Still, it was getting late.

    Opting to show a little more patience, Adam opened the door to the hall and picked up the newspaper delivered there every morning.  He rarely had time to do more than scan the headlines each morning before leaving for a day of activity.  Then, later in the day, he’d read the articles that had sparked his interest.  Today, it looked as though he might have time to read the entire newspaper.  Unrolling the July fifth issue of the Public Ledger, Adam was shocked by the headline blazoned across the page.  He quickly read the article below it, horrified by the tragic loss of life.

    The door to Joe’s room finally opened, and Joe came out, fully dressed.  At first, Adam was surprised, for Joe almost always made his first appearance while still in his nightshirt.  Didn’t want to see me before he had to , Adam correctly surmised, saddened by the revelation.  All thought of the lead story in the newspaper fled from his mind as he rose to bid his brother good morning and try to smooth over the quarrel between them.  “Joe, about last night . . .”

    “Never mind,” Joe said sharply.  “Let’s just forget it happened, Adam.”

    Adam’s dark brows drew together in a straight line.  “I’m not sure that’s the best way to handle it.”

    “Well, I am.  Look, I’m sorry I pushed you to talk about things you just don’t want to talk about.  I’ll try not to do it again, so let’s just leave it at that.”  He reached for the straw hat he had laid on the desk the previous night.  “Can we go downstairs now, please?  I didn’t have much to eat last night, and I’m hungry.”

    “No guarantees they’ve gotten fresh supplies, you know.”

    “Can we just try?” Joe snapped.

    Adam threw up his hands, grabbed his black bowler and led the way to the elevator.

    When they exited into the lobby, they walked into a caldron of turmoil.  The floor was covered with women dabbing at their eyes with lace handkerchiefs and men excitedly flapping open papers while they discussed some calamity.  Joe managed to catch a word here and there.

    “Massacre!”

    “Hundreds dead!”

    “Custer’s a fool, didn’t have a chance.”

    “Old Sitting Bull caught ‘em napping, sure enough.”

    Joe looked up at his brother.  “What’s going on?  You know?”

    Adam nodded soberly.  “Yes, I read about it this morning.  Apparently, General George Armstrong Custer attacked the Sioux near the Little Big Horn in Wyoming about ten days ago, and his entire force was wiped out.  Four hundred men against four thousand—they didn’t have a chance.”

    Joe paled and his body swayed.  “You don’t think it’ll start a general uprising, do you, Adam?”

    Adam noted the sudden pallor, the visibly shaken stance, but not understanding the reason for his younger brother’s evident distress, he simply answered the question factually.  “Hard to say, I guess.  The Sioux’s success might motivate other attacks.”

    Joe swallowed hard, and his eyes were anguished as he asked, “The Paiutes?  Would they . . ?”

    “Good lands, no!” Adam cried in sudden comprehension.  He drew Joe into a quiet corner.  “I didn’t mean it could reach that far, boy.  Besides, the Paiutes learned long ago what the Sioux soon will, that one victory only leads to later defeat when your foe outnumbers you a thousand to one.  Pa and Hoss are just fine, Joe.  Don’t worry about them for a minute.”

    Joe nervously twirled the hat he was holding.  “Could we check?  I mean, ten days, Adam—anything could have happened in ten days.”

    Adam ran a soothing hand over the boy’s chestnut curls.  “Joe, there’s no need.  They’re fine.”  Then, seeing his brother’s face tighten, he relented.  “All right, buddy, if it’ll ease your mind, we’ll send a wire.  You should have an answer by tonight.”

    Joe exhaled with obvious relief.  “Thanks, Adam.  I know you think it’s a waste of money, but—”

    “No, not at all, Joe,” Adam assured him kindly.  “I’m glad to do it for you.”  He placed his hands on the boy’s slim shoulders.  “Now I want you to do something for me: put the worry aside and come along with me to the Exhibition and enjoy yourself.”

    “Don’t seem right, somehow, with all those men dead,” Joe murmured, looking away.

    Adam pulled his brother’s face back toward him.  “Depriving yourself of pleasure won’t do anything to help them.”  He gave the smooth cheek a soft pat.  “Come on.  Let’s head straight there, and if they aren’t still completely out of food, we’ll sample the pastries at the Vienna Bakery for breakfast.”

    It was an enticing offer and, despite his agitation, Joe smiled a little.  “You still tryin’ to pretend I’m Hoss, that a good meal will make me forget everything that bothers me?”

    “No, although you’ve been doing a pretty good imitation at the table, buddy,” Adam returned drolly in a deliberate attempt to lighten the kid’s spirits.  Joe’s broadening grin told him he’d been successful.

    “Not as many people out today,” Joe remarked as they rode a horse car toward Fairmount Park.  “I guess the ones from out of town probably went home.”

    “And the Philadelphians with sense are probably lying in their beds,” Adam chuckled, “as we might well do if we didn’t have such a tight schedule.”

    Joe grinned back.  “You in bed this late?  That I’d like to see.”

    “Almost as rare a sight as you awake this early,” Adam retorted with a smirk.

    When they reached the Centennial grounds, Adam directed Joe to turn east on Elm Avenue.  Joe was a little surprised at that choice of entrance until he recalled that the Vienna Bakery lay on the eastern edge of the enclosed grounds.  When Adam moved past the last gate, however, Joe was totally perplexed.  Then he saw the circular building of corrugated iron, a hundred yards outside the fence, and flashed a wide grin.

    “I didn’t give you a chance to look at this the other day,” Adam said, “so I’d like to make up for that now.”  He bought two tickets and walked inside with Joe.  They climbed the stairs to the central platform and began to look at the vast panorama painted around the circular interior.  The besieged city of Paris was depicted with life-like accuracy, and Joe carefully scrutinized the images of the Seine River and the Arc de Triomphe, as well as every street and lane of the city with which he felt such kinship, even though neither he nor his mother had ever been there.

    Adam touched his brother’s arm to get his attention.  “I’m through here,” he said, “but you take as much time as you like.  I’ll go over to the Main Building and send that telegram to Pa and meet you on the porch of the bakery.”  He set no time limit, trusting hunger to insure that Joe didn’t dawdle overlong.

    “Thanks!” Joe said and immediately turned back to gaze intently upon the city once more.

    Predictably, Adam was already sitting on the porch, which surrounded the building on all sides, when Joe finally walked up the curving path toward the Vienna Bakery.

    “What did you think of The Siege of Paris?” Adam asked when Joe joined him.

    Joe smiled.  “I liked it, except for those Prussian soldiers, trying to get in.  That picture at the Colosseum did a better job of making me feel like I was there, though.”

    “I agree,” Adam said.  “Ready for breakfast?”

    “Oh, yeah, starving!”

    “Let’s go inside then.”  As they entered, Adam said, “It’s not actually representing Austria, you understand.  The bakery is really an exhibit of Gaff, Fleischmann and Company, to demonstrate their compressed yeast.”

    “So why call it the Vienna Bakery?” Joe asked.

    “Because the attached café is supposed to be like those in Vienna, and they bake Vienna bread here.  I intend to try the Vienna coffee.”

    “Guess I might as well, too,” Joe tittered.  “Can’t be worse than that Turkish brew.”

    Adam chuckled.  “No, I think I can safely predict that we’ll both enjoy this more.”

    On inquiry, the Cartwrights learned that a shipment of flour, yeast and other ingredients had been delivered by train in the night, so there were plenty of fresh pastries for the hungry men.  Joe declared them perfection and the coffee quite satisfactory, though different from the kind to which he was accustomed.  Adam heartily agreed.

    “So, where do we start this morning, big brother?” Joe inquired, cutting off another bite of iced coffeecake.

    “You won’t like it,” Adam warned with a smile.

    Joe groaned.  “Oh, don’t tell me— not more educational exhibits.”

    “More and still more,” Adam responded dryly, hiding his mirth in his coffee cup.

    Joe signaled the waiter.  “I’m gonna have to fortify myself with more coffee,” he informed his brother, “and maybe another pastry.”

    “Oh, by all means, we wouldn’t want you to leave one empty corner in that greedy belly of yours,” Adam scoffed.

    Fortified with pastry and coffee, Joe followed Adam toward the first torture chamber of the day, the Swedish schoolhouse.  It turned out not to be torture after all, but an attractive model of a typical public school building, constructed from native woods of Sweden and brought to the United States in sections.  Though unpainted, the wood had been polished ‘til it gleamed.

    “Beautiful,” Adam whispered.

    “Yeah,” Joe agreed.  “This is the way a building ought to look, built of warm wood, not the cold stone they use so much back here in the East.”

    “Stone can be warm and beautiful, too,” Adam argued.  “You can’t tell me some of the buildings in Philadelphia haven’t taken your eye.”

    “Yeah, they’re all right,” Joe conceded, “but I still like this better—and the Ponderosa better yet.”  A cloud crossed his countenance as the name of the ranch reminded him of his concern for those at home.

    Caught up in his admiration of the simple architecture, Adam didn’t notice.  “Shall we go in?” he asked after taking in every detail of the structure’s exterior.

    “Huh?  Oh, yeah, sure, can’t wait,” Joe muttered.

    The interior looked much like any schoolroom in any land, rows of desks filing the length of the single room, students’ papers covering all four walls.  Joe pointedly ignored them and stood staring out an arched window, his mind three thousand miles away, until Adam was ready to leave.

    Their next stop was a single-story Gothic pinewood cottage.  Architecturally, it suffered by comparison with the Swedish schoolhouse, but inside was something of far greater charm than the paperwork displayed in the other building.  An alcove for spectators was set at the side of the large hall, and Adam and Joe filed in behind other visitors, and each took a seat to watch a demonstration of the teaching techniques of Frederick Froebel, who called his school a kindergarten, a garden for children.  Tiny rocking chairs circled a low table in the center of the room, and sixteen little scholars between the ages of three and six were already at work, if it could be called work.  Their teacher, Miss Burritt of Boston, was helping them play educational games with cubes, blocks and cylinders, and when that task was completed, she led them in songs.

    When the demonstration concluded, Adam and Joe and the other observers went outside to see the children’s gardens.  Each had his or her own plot, where vegetables, flowers and even a tree were planted and their growth regularly observed.  As the Cartwright brothers turned toward the next building, Adam asked if such a system might have given Joe a better introduction to school.

    “Maybe,” Joe said with a shrug.  “Have to admit the little tykes looked like they were having fun.”

    Fun was definitely not on the agenda at the Pennsylvania Educational Department, although its architecture was interesting, even to Little Joe.  The building was circular, with a dome rising from the center of the roof.  Entering the south door, he and Adam came into a large central hall, which opened into an outer corridor encircling the building.  The corridor was divided into sections, one devoted to each level of schooling available in the state.  Starting to their right, the Cartwrights saw another exhibit of Froebel’s kindergarten materials.  Though attractively displayed and more complete than what they’d seen in the last building, no rosy-cheeked cherubs graced this exhibit.

    Section by section, the Cartwright brothers worked their way through the Sunday school, primary, secondary, grammar, high school, normal school and college displays, ending with the University of Pennsylvania.  “Doggone it, Adam,” Joe protested, “I saw the real thing.  Why do I have to look at all these blamed papers?”

    “You watch your language,” Adam growled ominously.

    “Yes, Pa.”  Joe’s sarcastic sneer faded as soon as he mentioned his father, and he turned away quickly so Adam wouldn’t see the tears threatening to destroy all pretense of manhood.

    Released from educational torment at last, Joe pointed out a soda water stand across the road.

    “Running up the food tab again, eh, little brother?” Adam chuckled.

    “It’s hot, Adam!” Joe snapped, reaching into his own pocket.

    Adam grabbed Joe’s wrist and pulled his hand from his pocket.  “I’m just teasing, Joe.  I don’t begrudge you fifteen cents worth of refreshment on a hot day, for goodness sakes.  Now, which flavor do you want?”

    “Root beer,” Joe said curtly.

    With a shake of his head, Adam ordered a Hires root beer for Joe and a ginger ale for himself.  “Better?” he asked when Joe had quaffed his drink.

    “Much,” Joe muttered.  “Thanks.”

    Adam lifted an eyebrow.  He wasn’t used to such laconic responses from his loquacious little brother, but he chalked it up to disgruntlement with educational exhibits and discomfort from another scorching day beneath a sun that gave no respite.

    Continuing east along the same path, another building came into view, and when Joe saw its name, he stopped abruptly, folded his arms and refused to budge.  “No, absolutely not.  I am not looking at a bunch of boxes for dead people!”

    Adam laughed and agreed that they could pass up the Burial Casket Building.  “I’m not going to pass that one up, though,” he said, nodding toward the Public Comfort station at the end of the path.

    “Me, either,” Joe agreed with a grin, and they went inside briefly to relieve themselves.  “End of the road,” Joe said when Adam rejoined him outside.  “Where now, big brother?”

    “Let’s take a look at the hunter’s camp, down in the ravine,” Adam suggested.

    Joe perked up immediately.  “That sounds fun.”

    “Yeah, I thought you might approve,” Adam snickered, grasping Joe by the nape of the neck and heading him toward the path that led down into Lansdowne Valley.  Each step seemed to take them away from the bustle above them into a world more familiar, a realm of woods and streams like that in which the Cartwright brothers had grown up.

    Finally, they came to the camp erected by Forest and Stream Publishing Company of New York, where professional hunters stood before log and bark huts, explaining techniques of hunting and fishing to people who had lived in cities all their lives.  It was all the Cartwright brothers could do to keep from laughing out loud at the foolish questions some of the visitors asked, which each of them could have answered by the time he entered grammar school.  They went inside the hut for a few minutes to see the hides, horns and stuffed poultry, but there wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before, except the snow-white coat of an albino skunk, the only one known in America.  After a brief look at the collection of firearms, rods and lines, specimens of game birds and kennels of sporting dogs, the Cartwrights, both feeling a bit nostalgic, were ready to climb out of the ravine.

    They paused a few minutes at the edge of the camp, where a stream had been developed into a little lake and stocked with fish for the angling demonstrations being performed for an ignorant public.  “Either one of us could teach those professionals a thing or two,” Adam chuckled.  “Still, it was a nice touch of home.”

    “Yeah, home,” Joe murmured wistfully, with a trace of tension underlying the words.

    As they arrived back in “civilization,” the Cartwright brothers came to a music stand, where musicians were just tuning up to begin a concert.  “Why don’t we sit down and listen for a while,” Adam suggested.  “As much as we’ve been on our feet the last couple of days, I can use the rest.”

    “Sure, that’s fine,” Joe agreed.

    The music was pleasant, and the trees in the valley provided enough shade to make the benches surrounding the stand a cool place to relax for half an hour, the duration of the concert.  The interlude was so soothing, in fact, that Adam almost drifted off to dreamland, and Joe had to nudge him when everyone else stood up to leave.

    Making their way further up to the main Exposition grounds, the boys moved toward Agricultural Avenue, stopping before a state building on the side path.  “Delaware?” Joe inquired.  “What does that have to do with you?  Have you been everywhere?”

    Throwing back his head, Adam laughed.  “Scarcely everywhere.  No, little brother, this time my interest is purely architectural.  I just want to look at the building a minute or two; then we’ll move on.”

    “Okay.  It is kind of nice.  Umm, Gothic?”

    “Norman Gothic,” Adam replied, pleased that Joe had recognized the style.

    “I like the way the front porch pushes out and has the same shape as the tower over it,” Joe observed.  “Makes it look like a castle.”

    “Yes, it definitely adds interest to the plain walls,” Adam agreed.  He walked toward the building down a central path divided by a diamond-shaped flowerbed and pointed out other diamond-shaped beds on either side.  “Can you guess why they’re shaped that way?”

    Joe shrugged.  “‘Cause Normans like diamonds?”

    “No,” Adam snickered as he turned the boy around to walk back to the main road.  “Delaware is the ‘Diamond State.’  It’s in honor of that.”

    Joe shook his head in dismay.  “You know everything,” he sighed.

    “Guidebook,” Adam admitted, eyes twinkling.  “I told you to read it each night before we came.”

    “Oh, sure,” Joe scoffed.  “We had lots of time yesterday to lay around and read.”

    Adam clapped his shoulder.  “No, I admit it was a full day.  You’re excused this time, my boy.”

    Joe scowled.  “Thanks all to pieces.”

    Adam squeezed the boy’s shoulder a couple of times and then released it.  “Okay, maybe you’ll feel more genuinely thankful if I offer to feed you.  Now, if you want a full meal, we’ll have to walk a ways to find it.  If a little light refreshment would suffice for the time being, the Dairy’s just next door.”

    “I’m not all that hungry,” Joe admitted.  “I know it’s past noon, but breakfast was sort of late this morning.”

    Adam nodded.  “Just what I was thinking.  So, how about a glass of milk or a dish of ice cream?”

    “Or both,” Joe suggested with a grin.

    Adam rolled his eyes.  “Or both.”

    The Dairy was housed in a lightly framed pavilion, open on all sides, with only a striped awning to shield its guests from the bright noonday sun.  Bounding up the short flight of wooden steps, Joe took a seat and promptly ordered a dish of vanilla ice cream and a tall glass of fresh milk.  Adam, sliding into the seat opposite him, chose just a glass of buttermilk, and both brothers soon felt cooler, inside and out, for a soft breeze blew through the open framework and across their sweat-beaded brows.

    The conversation trickling from surrounding tables was less refreshing.  Most of it concerned the massacre of Custer’s Seventh Cavalry at the hands of the “savage Sioux,” as most of the anxious voices termed the Lakota.  A few people alleged that the reports were false, that the United States Cavalry couldn’t possibly have been caught off guard so badly, General Sheridan’s name being mentioned as one who discounted the early reports.  Most, however, considered the “red menace” all too real and advocated that stern measures be taken to punish the savage beasts who had killed—and most likely scalped and mutilated—the Civil War hero’s cavalry unit.

    Little Joe jerked his chair back.  “I’m finished if you are,” he said sharply.

    Adam’s eyebrows knit together with concern.  “Yes, I’m finished.  Joe . . .”

    Joe stood up and moved briskly toward the exit, and Adam followed at once.  “Are you all right?” he asked solicitously.  “Maybe we should have gone for a real meal, instead of more sweets.  Pastry, coffee and ice cream—I haven’t done too well by you today.”

    “No, the food’s fine,” Joe said.  “I’m just ready to see something else.”

    The words didn’t match the strained tone with which they were uttered, but Adam decided to take them at face value.  After all, Little Joe had always been a kid who couldn’t sit still and even now, as a young man, he seemed to crave constant activity.

    Leaving the Dairy, Adam led Joe across Agricultural Avenue to a knoll on which stood the government building of Brazil, pleasingly painted in shades of brown, yellow and red.  “Oh, magnificent!” Adam cried when he saw the octagonal building, whose spacious porch and bay windows on all sides except the front kept the structure from a strict mathematical precision that would have diminished its charm.  A smaller turret of roughly the same shape rose from the center, the broad roof of the porch below serving as an attractive, railed promenade.  “I’d like to go inside this one,” he announced.

    “Sure,” Joe agreed with a shrug.

    They walked through a garden landscaped with Brazilian plants, up the short stairway and across the wide front porch to enter a long central hallway, running the length of the building.  The hallway opened onto two rooms, one on either side.  Adam and Joe went into the one set aside for visitors and found a pleasant reception hall, its walls covered with gold paper, embellished with vines and flowers, and its floor covered with plain, but tasteful furniture.  At the rear of the room, a stairway led to the turret, which contained four rooms.

    While Adam examined the finer details of the turret’s interior, Little Joe walked out onto the promenade.  It offered a fine view of the Exposition grounds, but with his thoughts far away, Joe couldn’t enjoy it today.

    Adam came to his side as he stood leaning on the low rail surrounding the promenade.  “I’m ready to see the German Building now,” Adam said.

    Joe straightened up, though his shoulders still slumped forward.  “Okay,” he sighed.

    Catching sight of Joe’s drawn face, Adam reached out to touch his arm.  “You look tired.”

    Joe merely nodded, but as he scrutinized the boy’s face more closely, Adam realized that more than simple weariness was etched across that taut countenance.  “What’s wrong, Joe?  And don’t put me off, as you did back at the Dairy.”

    Joe shrugged, not comfortable admitting what was tugging at him so strongly he could think of little else, a concern he was certain Adam would only belittle for its childishness.  “Just tired, I guess.  I don’t suppose you’d hear of me going back to the hotel by myself.”

    “Not on your life!” Adam hooted; then he sobered as he saw Joe blinking back the moisture in his eyes.  “Now, if you’ll tell me what the real problem is,” he said gently, “maybe I can help.”

    Licking his lips nervously, Joe took a deep breath and murmured, “I guess I’d just like to see if Pa answered that telegram.”

    Suddenly, Adam understood; suddenly, he realized that his little brother had been carrying this worry all day, letting it eat away at him through each passing hour.  “I thought we agreed that you would put that out of your mind and enjoy yourself,” he said, laying a supportive hand on the boy’s slim shoulder.

    Joe’s face contorted as he fought for self-control.  “Well, I tried, Adam, I really did, but, doggone it, there’s not much to enjoy in more architecture and more educational exhibits, and my mind just keeps drifting back to . . .”

    Adam tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder.  “Okay, I understand.  Let’s go back to the hotel.”

    Facial muscles tight, Joe shook his head.  “Look, Adam, I don’t want to spoil your good time.  You can stay here; I promise I’ll go straight back to the hotel and that’s all.”

    “No,” Adam said firmly.  “We stay together.”  Seeing Joe’s eyes flare with anger, he made an attempt at reconciliation.  “Look, we’ve had a full schedule the last few days, and I’m feeling tired, as well.  We’ll check on the telegram, rest up awhile and maybe take in a play or concert tonight.  How does that sound?”

    Joe looked up, his eyes warm with appreciation.  “Great, real great, Adam.  I know you think I’m actin’ like a fool kid, but—”

    “No, just a worried one,” Adam said kindly.  “Let’s get out of here.”

    Joe nodded gratefully and set a lively pace toward the main entrance.  As far as he was concerned, they couldn’t get back downtown fast enough, and the horse car seemed inordinately slow today, although it took its accustomed half hour to make the drive.  When they finally got off, Joe jogged down Chestnut Street and ran to the hotel desk.  “Any telegrams for Cartwright?” he asked, gripping the edge of the counter.

    The desk clerk checked the cubbyholes behind him.  “No, sir, but there are two letters, one each to you and your brother.”

    Joe stared at them, but made no move to take them.  “Just letters, no telegram?”

    “No, sir.”  The spectacled young man gazed with concern at the hotel guest’s agitated face.  “No trouble, I trust, sir?”

    “No, no trouble,” Adam assured him, taking the letters.  “Come on upstairs now, Joe.”  He steered his brother into the elevator, where he rubbed the back of the boy’s neck.  “You know how long it takes to ride out to the Ponderosa,” he consoled.  “There just hasn’t been time for the message to get there and for an answer to return here.”

    “Maybe the wires are down,” Joe fretted.  “Maybe the Indians chopped down the poles.”

    “Don’t borrow trouble, boy,” Adam said firmly.  The elevator opened, and they walked down the hall to their suite.  Unlocking the door, Adam guided his brother inside.  “Now try to relax,” he urged.  “I’m sure that telegram will be here by suppertime.  Look, here’s a letter from Hoss, addressed to you.  Sit down and read it.”

    Joe smiled, weakly, but opened the letter and read his other older brother’s description of activities taking place on the ranch.  Much as he enjoyed what Hoss had to say, however, he couldn’t escape a morbid fear that he was reading his best friend’s final words.  When he’d finished the letter, he folded it carefully and tucked in into his shirt, close to his heart.  Then he reached for that morning’s issue of the Public Ledger.

    Adam grabbed it first, holding it out of Joe’s reach.  “Unh-uh, not ‘til you’ve heard from Pa.”

    “Aw, come on, Adam.  Ain’t like everybody at the Centennial today wasn’t talkin’ about it.”

    “No,” Adam dictated firmly.  “You are not going to spend the afternoon working yourself into a deeper and deeper depression.  Go read the guidebook to the Centennial.  We’ll be going to Memorial Hall tomorrow, so prepare yourself for that.”

    “Aw, Adam!”

    “Do it!”  Adam snapped his fingers for emphasis.

    Joe snatched the guidebook from the desk in the corner and, taking it into his bedroom, flopped down on the bed and tried to concentrate on the facts and figures about Memorial Hall.

    About an hour later Adam heard a tap on the door and went to answer it.  “Telegram, sir,” said the uniformed messenger boy.

    “Thank you,” Adam said, handing a coin to the youngster.  Shutting the door, he glanced up to see Joe standing in the doorway to his room.  “You want to open it?” he asked, holding out the telegram.

    Joe shook his head.  “You read it.”

    Nodding, Adam tore open the envelope and scanned the brief message.  He smiled across the room at his brother and began to read:

ASSURE JOSEPH ALL WELL STOP
RELAX STOP
HAVE FUN STOP
MISS YOU BOTH STOP
PA FULL STOP

    Joe was beaming, and his relieved smile spread from ear to ear.  “Yeah—and starved.  Can we eat early?”

    “ May we eat early?” Adam corrected with a teasing wink.  “Yes, we may.  Since we didn’t actually eat dinner, I can just imagine the dent you’re going to put in my pocketbook tonight!”

    “How’d you guess?” Joe snickered, heading for the door.

    Adam took hold of his brother’s neck as he passed and gave him a light shake.  “Oh, I have great faith in you, little brother, great faith.  Just don’t overdo it, because we’ll probably want to catch a bite after the theater, too.”

    “Oh, no doubt about it.”  Joe tossed his brother an impish grin.  “Which theater we going to?”

    “Fox’s American, just up the street,” Adam replied as they walked toward the elevator.  “It’s the closest, and I’m too tired to walk further than I have to.”

    They rode the elevator down and entered the dining room, where Joe made good his promise to drain his brother’s pocketbook.  Then, with satisfied stomachs, they walked three blocks north to the theater to enjoy a light-hearted comedy.  Over dessert and coffee, they laughed at the funnier lines of the play and afterwards walked back to the hotel in happy-hearted companionship.

    It was the last such walk they would share for weeks to come, for the storm clouds that had been building in the distance were rushing closer.  They would begin to break the next day, and by the day after that, the Cartwright brothers would find themselves caught in a tempest whose fury threatened to sunder their companionship forever.

    Little Joe awoke with a groan and a general feeling of uneasiness.  The room was almost black, though had he been outside, in an area whose view was not obscured by tall buildings, he might have seen the first tentative touch of a rosy dawn on the eastern horizon.  Inching up on the mattress, he hunched over his knees and bit his lower lip to stifle another groan, his face relaxing into a relieved smile as soon as the spasm passed.

    He’d been dreaming, a dark nightmare in which he rode at the side of the famous yellow-haired general of the Seventh Cavalry toward a suspiciously familiar trio of men hopelessly surrounded by Sitting Bull’s painted warriors.  As he charged through a hail of sharp-tipped shafts, one had struck him in the gut, and it came as a comfort to wake and discover that he was not the victim of a Sioux arrow, but merely of a garden-variety bellyache.

    Joe sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and leaned his head into his hands.  Well, looks like older brother was right, though I’ll never hear the end of it if I tell him.  Better watch what I eat a little closer from now on.  He sighed, thinking it a shame that he’d have to curtail the sheer pleasure of sampling all the new and unfamiliar foods of Philadelphia, but he had to admit he’d probably been overdoing it, especially yesterday.  After having little but sweets during the day, he’d eaten a supper far heavier than usual and after the theater had capped that with a dessert so rich it was almost sickening.  While Joe had always had a healthy appetite at home, here it had been—what was that word Adam kept using?—prodigious?—yeah, that’s what it had become, and now he was paying the price of his intemperate exploration of culinary diversity.

    Joe stumbled over to the open window, hoping a breath of air would make him feel better.  It did, slightly, so he crawled back into bed and curled up on his side, finally falling into a restless sleep.  It seemed like only minutes later, though the sun was well up, when Adam shook him roughly and roused him with the usual barb about Sleeping Beauty.  The groan that passed Joe’s lips was so typical of his normal reaction to being awakened from a sound sleep that Adam never gave it a second thought, and that’s just the way Joe wanted it.  The last thing he needed was another lecture from his older brother, so he just staggered out of bed, washed and dressed and followed Adam down to the dining hall, trying to look ready to face the day.

    Ordering only a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, Joe reacted grumpily to the skeptically arched eyebrow with which his brother greeted the selection.  “What’s your problem?” he demanded.  “It’s one of the cheaper things on the menu.”

    Shaking his head, Adam chuckled.  “Which is precisely what makes me wonder why you’re choosing it.”

    Joe grunted and gave up all hope of avoiding a lecture.  “Ate too much last night, I guess.  Just not hungry this morning.”

    Adam sported an I-told-you-so grin.  “Well, it’s about time your appetite returned to normal.  Any chance this salutary behavior will last the full day?”

    Joe’s upper lip curled, almost into a snarl.  “Yeah, I’ll try to go easy on your pocketbook today, okay?”

    Adam continued to smile.  “My pocketbook thanks you.”

    Eager to change the subject, Joe said, “We’re visiting Memorial Hall today, you said.”

    “And I don’t want to hear a single complaint from you,” Adam admonished.

    “What makes you think . . . oh, never mind.”

    Breakfast arrived, and Adam heartily dug into his ham and eggs, while Joe found that he didn’t have much appetite, even for oatmeal, leaving nearly half of the cereal in his bowl.

    Noticing, Adam merely said,  “I don’t want you asking me for popcorn balls halfway through the morning.”

    “I won’t ask you for anything,” Joe growled, lurching to his feet.  “Let’s go, all right?”

    As they walked toward the streetcar stop, Adam observed that Joe wasn’t his usual perky self, but he attributed it to the weariness of packing so much into each day or, more likely, disinterest in the artistic offerings scheduled for this particular day.  He assured himself, however, that the uncultured boy had to be exposed to fine art, even against his will.  It’s for his own good, and in the long run, he’ll thank me for it, especially, he added with a grin, when we reach the French gallery.

    When the streetcar careened around a corner, Joe touched his hand to his stomach, wondering whether he’d be able to keep the oatmeal down.  He was feeling just a touch queasy, but his stomach seemed to settle down again as soon as he left the moving car at the main entrance to the Centennial grounds.  After Adam handed the gatekeeper their tickets, Joe made a beeline for the Bartholdi fountain and washed the sensation of bile from his mouth, while his brother waited, bemused.  Though the day promised to be another hot one, the temperature wasn’t high enough yet to account for Joe’s apparently urgent thirst, but Adam just shrugged off the inconsequential mystery.

    Turning to the right, the brothers walked down the broad Avenue of the Republic, past the Carriage Annex to the building directly north of the Main Exhibition Hall.  Adam took Joe’s arm to halt him before they entered.  “I know you’re probably tired of hearing my lectures on architecture, but I do want you to take special note of this building, Joe.  Unlike the temporary structures here only for the Exhibition, it’s intended to be a permanent memorial to the Centennial.”

    Joe nodded.  “It’s about the prettiest one on the grounds, so I can see why they’d want to keep it.”

    “It’s one of Schwarzmann’s personal designs,” Adam said, his admiration obvious.  “The style is Modern Renaissance.”  He sang at length the praises of the building overlooking the Schuylkill River a hundred feet below, pointing out the square pavilions at each corner, the arches and columns of the entrances and the four-sided dome, with a zinc statue of Columbia rising from its center.  In fact, some figure, either soaring eagle or classical symbol, graced every corner of each of the building’s projections.  At the base of the dome, four seated forms represented the four corners of the globe, while standing statues honored Industry and Commerce on the south front, which the Cartwright brothers were viewing.  “There are similar figures on the north side, representing Agriculture and Mining,” Adam informed his brother.  “We’ll see them later.”

    “Uh-huh,” Joe muttered perfunctorily.

    Adam’s brow wrinkled.  “Don’t you think Memorial Hall is a superb work of art in itself and a suitable backdrop for the masterpieces it exhibits?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    Adam shook his head at the plain hopelessness of instilling an appreciation of architectural beauty in his brother, not realizing that the real distraction was the nagging ache in Joe’s belly.

    As they mounted the wide steps, with shrubbery-lined banks on either side, Joe pointed to one of the two bronze sculptures flanking the top step.  “I do like those, Adam,” he said, trying hard to demonstrate interest.

    Adam took one look at the statues of Pegasus, being held in check by the Muses Erato and Calliope and laughed.  “Oh, you would!  Females and fillies always catch your eye.  What’s the matter, little fellow, missing Cochise?”

    “Oh, shut up,” Joe growled, in no mood for teasing, especially when the joke was one he’d heard before.

    “They are impressive pieces,” Adam stated, choosing to ignore Joe’s ill temper.  “They were originally intended for the Imperial Opera House in Vienna, but were considered out of scale for that building.  A Philadelphia man, who happened to be traveling in Austria at the time, saved them from the melting pot and bought them for Fairmount Park.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    Adam threw up his hands and with a shake of his head moved toward the iron doors, which were decorated with bronze panels showing the coats of arms of all the states and territories.  Hand gingerly touching his side, Joe followed him into the vestibule, where a crystal chandelier shone down on a setting of classic beauty, as open and airy as the piazza of a Roman villa.  Above a wainscoting of colored marble stretched walls of pure white, with bronze and marble statues set against them.  The Cartwrights dutifully stopped to examine each one, although Little Joe seemed to barely glance at most of the pieces.  Guess I was wrong about his having artistic flair, Adam mused.  Not displaying a drop of it today.

    At the east and west sides, doors led into the gardens, but Adam moved through one of the three arches on the north, which led into the central gallery.  Sales stands surrounded the sides of the large room, and he stopped at one to purchase a catalog of the exhibits.  He saw no need to buy opera glasses and didn’t want to take time to look at the photographs for sale until he’d seen the original works.  “We’ll probably buy some later,” he told Joe.  “That would be the best way to share the art gallery with Pa and Hoss, don’t you think?”

    “I guess so,” Joe murmured; then seeing Adam’s frown, he lifted his head and responded more brightly, “I mean, yes, that’s a good idea.”

    Adam nodded and moved toward the center of the room.  “I wish they had painted the walls something other than plain white,” he commented.  “It doesn’t make the best background for marble statuary.”

    “No, it kind of blends right in,” Joe agreed.

    “This one stands out, at least,” Adam said, leading the way toward the centerpiece of the main gallery.  Flooded by light from the overhead dome, a terra cotta group represented America as a woman crowned with eagle feathers, on the back of a buffalo.  She was attended by four figures, depicting the major sections of the New World.  A virgin wearing a belt of stars personified the United States, while Canada’s representative was dressed in furs and pressed the rose of England to her heart.  An Aztec chief symbolized Mexico, and South America was embodied in a man wearing poncho and sombrero.

    “Not bad,” Joe said, since Adam appeared to be waiting for some kind of comment.

    Adam chuckled.  “Good enough for the Albert Memorial in Hyde Park, London!  This is a copy of the sculpture there.”

    Feeling criticized, Joe flushed.  “I like real folks best, like that one.”  He pointed to a group of statues on the south side of the hall.

    Remembering all the classical figures on the porcelain and pottery Joe had admired in the Main Building, Adam raised an eyebrow.  Of course, those had been nudes, which might explain Joe’s adolescent interest.  Though amused, Adam decided he would have to start where the kid was, artistically, and see if he couldn’t, somehow, pull him a step closer to fine art later on.  With a sweep of his hand, he directed Joe toward the statues he had indicated.

    The first was a life-size figure of Samuel Morse in the act of sending the first telegram, and beside it stood a bronze of statesman Robert R. Livingston of New York.  For all his professed preference for “real folks,” however, Little Joe gave the statues scant attention, soon wandering over to a gigantic one of Prince Bismarck, which stood at the portal to the German gallery.  “You wanna start here?” he asked, though seemingly without any particular interest.

    “Let’s see the American exhibits first, shall we?” Adam suggested.

    The knowing smile on his brother’s face irritated Joe.  “Oh, ‘cause you think other places are better and you’re savin’ them ‘til last?”

    Adam folded his arms and stared at the petulant face before him.  “Was I wrong about the Main Building?”

    Joe shrugged.  “Guess not.”

    “Then let’s do this my way, shall we?”

    Though formed as a question, it was obviously meant to be a rhetorical one, yet Joe responded anyway, with another rhetorical question.  “Is there ever a choice?”

    Adam rolled his eyes and led the way, trying to figure out what was bothering his younger brother.  The kid was obviously in a sour mood today, but Adam could see no reason for it.  Although he’d known Pa and Hoss were in no danger, he had understood the concern Joe felt yesterday.  Surely, that wasn’t still worrying him.  No, Joe had been fine at the theater the night before—laughing, light-hearted, truly himself again.  Well, sometimes there was just no understanding Joe; he could swing from light-hearted laughter to volatile anger to soft sentiment, all in the space of half an hour.

    Deciding patience was the best way to handle Joe’s unaccountably touchy attitude, Adam explained his reason for viewing the American section first.  “I’m starting here because this exhibit is the largest and probably treats subjects of greater familiarity to you.”

    Joe shrugged one shoulder.  “Okay.”  Suddenly, his eyes fell on the mammoth painting covering the entire end of the American gallery.  “Hey!  Look at that.”

    Adam groaned when he saw what had grabbed his younger brother’s attention, Rothermel’s painting of the Battle of Gettysburg.  Naturally, Little Joe would be drawn like a magnet to the one piece of art Adam had no interest whatsoever in viewing.  Art?  No, the painting was not worthy of the name, not in the eyes of any critic with reasonably good taste.  The public, however, apparently loved the canvas, which was little more than a mass of bloody bodies of dead and wounded soldiers.  People were crowded around it, and pushing through them, Joe studied it intently, as if searching for his brother in the battlefield scene.  “Where were you, Adam?”

    Adam slumped.  More questions.  Would the kid never let it drop?  “I didn’t pose for this atrocity,” he muttered dryly.

    There was pain in Joe’s eyes, the same pain Adam had seen before when he’d tried to evade his brother’s unending questions.  “No, I meant when you were there,” Joe said.

    “I know what you meant,” Adam said, his voice hushed.  He brushed his hand toward the canvas.  “Somewhere to the left; I can’t pinpoint the exact spot, especially not from a painting this bad.  Now, may we move on to less gruesome subjects?”

    Joe nodded, tight-lipped, upset with himself for having violated his vow to avoid this subject so painful to his older brother.  Besides, although the pain in his belly had subsided to a dull ache, he didn’t really have the energy to do battle with Adam this morning.  He moved toward another historic canvas, this one called Miles Standish and the Indians, and forcing a cheerful grin, he asked, “You got anything against this one?”

    Adam chuckled.  “Only that it’s another large, bad painting.  See how coarse the colors are, how wooden the figures.”  Seeing Joe’s blank expression, he started to think that he should have started with the best art in the world, instead of the literal, almost photographic representations the American artists seemed to favor, so his brother would have something with which to compare these remarkably poor pieces.

    He revised that opinion when he saw Joe gaze, enrapt, at two excellent marine views by Edward Moran.  “The colors are better in these, don’t you think?” Joe asked, almost timidly.

    So he had been listening!  “Yes, these are well done,” Adam agreed.

    “Makes me think of Pa,” Joe whispered wistfully.

    Ah, so that’s it, Adam decided.  The kid’s suffering a severe attack of homesickness, probably because he spent so much time thinking about Pa yesterday.

“I guess you remember scenes like this from when you lived back on the coast, huh?”

    Certain he’d diagnosed the cause of his little brother’s dispirited mood, Adam draped a supportive arm across the boy’s shoulders as they viewed The Coming Storm over New York Bay.  Waxing a bit nostalgic, he said, “Yes, I’ve seen a storm rush in over the same bay, and this painting captures the essence of that moment well.  You’re developing a better eye already, little brother!”

    Joe shrugged out from under Adam’s arm.  “I know I don’t have your education in such things, but I’m trying, Adam, and I wish you wouldn’t twit me so much.”

    The words hit Adam with the force of a blow to the breastbone.  “You’re right,” he admitted with genuine contrition.  “This is a new experience for you, and I should let you take it in at whatever level you can.  I apologize.”

    Joe smiled warmly at the words he almost never heard from his older brother.  He realized Adam only made an apology when he meant it, and Joe treasured such words all the more for their rarity.

    Adam again placed his arm across his brother’s shoulders, and this time Joe let it stay.  “You’ll probably enjoy the work of this artist’s younger brother, too,” Adam said, turning Joe toward a nearby set of paintings.

    “Oh, wow,” Joe gasped as he caught sight of Thomas Moran’s Mountain of the Holy Cross.  “That has got to be about the most beautiful picture I’ve ever seen!  It’s so—so grand.”

    “Yes, a splendid capture of mountain grandeur,” Adam agreed.  “An exquisite work.”

    Joe’s gaze kept swinging from the paintings of one Moran brother to the other, as though he were making a futile attempt to decide which he preferred.  “Wish we could take them home,” he said finally.  “I could stare at them for hours.”

    “Good art has that effect on a person.”  Adam patted his brother’s shoulder.  “Like to indulge you—and myself—little buddy, but the price would be rather steep, I fear.  Besides, marvelous works like these should be in a museum, where hundreds can appreciate them.”

    “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Joe said, hand resting against his right side.  “It would be selfish to hog something like that all to yourself.”

    Adam chuckled, giving the boy’s neck an affectionate stroke.  “Come on, kid.  There’s plenty more to see.”

    “Nothing I’ll like better; I can tell you that now!”

    Adam started to rebuke the narrow interest, but caught himself just in time.  No sense apologizing and then turning right around and committing the same offense.  Besides, the kid was probably right; nothing else was likely to touch Joe as forcefully as these scenes reminiscent of home.

    The next painting evoked the first laughter of the day from Little Joe.  Eastman Johnson’s The Old Stagecoach portrayed a group of children hard at play with a red stage that had lost its wheels.  Every role, from driver to passenger to the team of four horses, was filled by energetic children, and Joe had obviously identified with their spirit of frolic.  “Hoss and I used to play stagecoach when we were kids, while you were back east.  Wish we’d had a real stage like this, though.  Just a worn out old buckboard for us.”

    “Ah, but I would guess the power of imagination transformed it into the finest Concord ever built,” Adam suggested with a smile.

    Joe grinned, trying to picture Adam letting his imagination run wild like that, but he just couldn’t.  To say what he did, Adam must have had that capacity somewhere inside, at least as a child, but Joe just couldn’t hold such an incongruous image in his mind.  Adam and play just didn’t go together—had never gone together.  No, Adam, in his younger brother’s view, was always linked with work.  Maybe it wasn’t a fair picture.  Maybe it wasn’t just war secrets Adam hadn’t shared, but better times, as well.  Before Joe could pursue that thought, however, another wave of discomfort hit his stomach, and his attention riveted on keeping a secret of his own.  He didn’t even object when Adam pulled him away from Johnson’s other painting, Old Kentucky Home, whose scene of Negro life in the South clearly evoked for Adam more memories he preferred not to relive.

    Both brothers were more comfortable again, Joe physically and Adam emotionally, when they viewed a painting by Martin Heade.  On the California Coast suggested a scene with which both were familiar, but the artist’s extraordinary use of light created a landscape of eerie allure, giving the familiar a feel totally new.  “I suppose you’d like to hang this one on your wall, too,” Adam teased, wanting to bring the smile back to his brother’s face., a bucolic landscape, complete with cows grazing on a grassy knoll bestrewn with red, purple and yellow wildflowers.

    Joe shook his head.  “No, I like it, but not as much as those sea scenes by Moran.”

    Adam nodded.  “More grandeur, more power.”

    Just when Adam had begun to believe that only nostalgic landscapes could hold his brother’s attention, Joe surprised him by looking with delight at the portrait of a mother and son called Tantalizing.  It caught the image of a charming child, arms and head impatiently stretched forward, as he strained to grasp a bunch of grapes held just out of reach.  For a moment the scene reminded Adam vividly of Marie’s struggles with a very young—and very inquisitive—Joe, and Adam wondered if a similar childhood memory lay behind his younger brother’s appreciation.  He seems to need an emotional tie to truly enjoy art.

    Adam’s conclusion seemed demonstrated by the next painting that caught his little brother’s eye, for Elaine surely stirred the memory of a favorite childhood tale.  Adam could remember reading to Joe about the Knights of the Round Table and the Lady of Shallot, depicted here on her death barge, holding against her heart a letter to her love, Sir Lancelot.  Evidently, the passion of that story still resided within the youngest Cartwright and increased his enjoyment of the canvas.

    “Nice?” Joe asked hesitantly.

    “Nice,” Adam affirmed.  “I saw this painting when it was exhibited in San Francisco in April of last year, and I thought then that it would create a lot of interest.”

    Joe’s interest, however, appeared to be waning.  What is it with this kid? Adam pondered.  One minute he’s completely enthralled with some majestic scene and the next it’s like he’s not even in the building.  But, then, Joe had always been quixotic in temperament, so Adam shrugged off the impression, especially when the six landscapes by Albert Bierstadt again lit a spark in his brother’s eye.  Adam had to laugh when Joe’s dreamy gaze lingered long on Spring in California

    Hearing the laughter, Joe glanced up at his brother.  “You don’t think it’s good?”

    “No, it’s wonderful,” Adam said quickly.  “It’s you that amuses me, kid.  I’m afraid if I don’t get you out of the American department soon you’ll develop an overwhelming case of homesickness.”

    Joe smiled softly.  Home—Adam had no idea how good that sounded right now.  Home—where Pa would set all things right, including a persistently irritable stomach.  He followed Adam without really seeing the next several paintings until he felt his brother touch his arm.

    “This might be you and your friends in the schoolyard,” Adam commented lightly.

    Joe looked up and smiled at the painting by Winslow Homer.  Snap the Whip , with its chain of barefoot boys running, hand in hand, across a grassy lawn, did, indeed, remind him of schoolyard games.

    “You’ve seen this artist’s work before, of course,” Adam commented.  Smiling at Joe’s puzzled expression, he continued, “In the pages of Harper’s Weekly .  He’s one of their chief illustrators.”

    Joe smiled then, for like all the Cartwrights, he had always looked forward to the arrival of the weekly paper with its well-drawn woodcuts of topical events, although the news was usually a couple of weeks old by the time Harper’s Weekly reached Nevada.  He’d be sure to check the illustrators’ names in future copies to see if he could spot a familiar one.

    Since Joe had enjoyed seeing historic sights around the city, Adam thought that his younger brother would savor the patriotic portraits displayed nearby, but Joe only nodded absently when shown several of Washington, along with others of John Adams and Andrew Jackson.  And when the painting of General George Meade did not inspire a single query about the Civil War, Adam shook his head in wonder, though he was secretly relieved.  The Spirit of ’76 by Archibald Willard, with its stirring scene of drum and fife against the Stars and Stripes in a cloudy background, inspired a little more interest.  When Adam expressed the opinion that he didn’t think the painting well enough done to generate much enduring attraction, though, the comment brought only a token nod from Little Joe.

    When they reached the end of the American department, Joe surprised his brother with a request to go out into the garden for a while.  “You’re not tired already, are you?” Adam inquired.  “We have a long way to go, just in this building.”

    Joe glanced away and muttered defensively, “Like you said, we’ve been keeping a full schedule.”

    “All right, all right,” Adam responded with a conciliatory tone.  “I don’t have any objection—just surprised, that’s all.  Guess your youthful exuberance doesn’t include fine art, eh?”

    “No, I like the pictures just fine,” Joe said, as they walked into the courtyard.  “Just wanna sit a few minutes.  No need to make something of it, Adam.”  He wasn’t being entirely truthful.  Though he was tired, Joe mainly hoped that some fresh air would make him feel a little less queasy.  He was feeling better than he had earlier that morning, but every now and then a flutter of nausea would ripple through his stomach.

    “Be my guest, little brother,” Adam chuckled, gesturing toward a bench.  He sat down next to Joe, and for a few minutes both brothers enjoyed the floral fragrance of the garden and the small collection of statuary and vases scattered amongst the greenery.

    “Now to see some of the best paintings in the exhibition,” Adam observed when they walked back inside.

    “Hmm?”

    “The British gallery,” Adam explained.  “Not to dampen your patriotic zeal, little brother, but I’m afraid what you’ve seen thus far will simply not rise to the standard of what lies ahead.”  When Joe made no response, Adam cocked his head and said with a taunting grin, “What?  Can’t I even get a rise out of you today in defense of your country?”

    “That why you said it, to get a rise out of me?” Joe grunted.  “Don’t you ever get tired of pickin’ at me?”

    “Sorry, guess I was doing that again,” Adam admitted, “but you’re just not yourself today, buddy.  Not still worried about Indians attacking the Ponderosa, are you?”

    Joe gave his lower lip a nervous nibble.  Letting Adam think that was definitely preferable to admitting the truth, but he didn’t want to lie.  “No, I reckon they’re fine.”

    The slight hesitation that preceded the statement, however, was enough to convince Adam that his little brother was still feeling concern, but trying to hide it.  Better go easy on him the rest of the day, he concluded, and he was careful to avoid any hint of teasing as he said, “We’ll start first with the more modern English painters.”

    “Okay,” Joe murmured in reply, but neither the works of Sir John Gilbert, Frederick Layton, Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema or a wall full of portraits by various other British artists induced a single comment from him.

    Arriving at a painting by William Powell Frith, Adam made a deliberate attempt to stimulate some interest in the boy at his side.  “The Railway Station is supposed to depict the arrest of a notorious forger at the moment the continental train is departing,” he said, but as he’d done with all the previous paintings in the English department, Joe merely nodded. Just a hopelessly provincial little American boy, Adam concluded.

    Not until the brothers stood before a full-length portrait of George Washington by Gilbert Stuart did Joe make any comment.  “Funny, but I do like this one better than the ones by the American painters.  You’d think we’d know more what our first president looked like than the redcoats.”

    “Hush,” Adam hissed, looking around to see if any British visitors had overheard the ill-conceived word.  “Don’t use labels like that.”

    “Okay, okay, no offense meant,” Joe said with a quick touch to his side.  “I was just saying this one makes old George look more—well, statesman-like, I guess—than the American ones.”

    To Joe’s surprise, the serious observation was met by laughter from his older brother.  “Well, I didn’t think I said anything that stupid,” Joe mumbled.

    “No, not at all,” Adam assured him, resting his hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder.  “I was just remembering something Inger said once when Pa called Washington ‘old George.’  She didn’t think it was respectful to refer to the father of our country that way!”

    A wistful smile touched Joe’s lips, for he always felt privileged when Adam shared anything about his childhood.  “You’re lucky, you know, knowing her.  All me and Hoss know is what you and Pa tell us—and that’s not an awful lot, especially for Hoss.”

    Adam’s face grew still in reflection.  “I used to do that some when he was small.  Maybe you’re right; maybe I should talk to Hoss more about his mother, share those simple memories of childhood.”

    “Yeah,” Joe said, the pain fading as he put his thoughts on someone else.  “I mean, I’ve got some memory of my mother, but Hoss doesn’t have any.”  He stopped in sudden realization.  “Well, I guess you don’t, either—of yours, I mean.”

    “No, none at all,” Adam admitted with a touch of bitterness.  Although he said no more, he couldn’t help thinking that his memories of his other mothers were, at best, bittersweet.  Marvelous memories, but so many feelings of loss tied up with them.  Joe, who had known only the one great loss in his life, couldn’t possibly understand, Adam told himself, so, as always, he kept the memories and their associated feelings to himself.  Probably the real reason I haven’t shared more with Hoss—or Joe, either—about their mothers.  Like all those other memories of ‘back then’ that Joe keeps pressing for, the good ones come laced with pain.

    Between the two English rooms the Cartwright brothers passed through a corridor, which was largely devoted to watercolors.  Adam gazed a long time at a painting called Interior of the Sistine Chapel.  “Now, that’s something I’d like to see in person.”  Turning, he saw a frown on his younger brother’s face.  Assuming it arose from the fear, expressed before, that his older brother might leave home again, Adam hurriedly added, “Just another dream, I suppose.  I don’t have any real plans for traveling aboard.”

    Joe, who had quickly dropped the hand touching his stomach when Adam turned toward him, made no response but a forced smile.

    With a shake of his head, Adam turned into the northwest gallery, which housed the works of Britain’s deceased artists.  “Now, here’s a literary scene you should be familiar with,” he said, pausing before a painting by Daniel Maclise.

    Joe blinked.  “Hmm?”

    Adam took a deep breath and made another attempt.  “It’s the banquet scene from Macbeth.  I know you’ve seen that staged.  Lady Macbeth is encouraging her husband to murder Duncan, and you can see how Macbeth cowers back from the ghost of Banquo in the forefront.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    Adam rolled his eyes.  Was the kid being deliberately obtuse today, for some reason known only to himself, or was instilling an appreciation of culture in Joe simply as hopeless an effort as persuading him to attend college?  Spotting a painting crowded by Centennial visitors, Adam moved toward it.  Perhaps a work with such popular appeal would interest his unpredictable little brother, too.  The painting turned out to be another by Frith, this one The Marriage of the Prince of Wales.  “Here’s another by the artist who did The Railway Station, Joe.”

    Joe looked up, for he had admired the energy of Frith’s other painting.  This one was just as populated with well-drawn figures, but the setting in the great cathedral was one of pomp and splendor, in contrast to that of the bustling railway station.

    “Queen Victoria herself loaned this painting to the Exhibition,” Adam said, “a good example of the generosity of many who have entrusted these great works to our keeping.”

    “Yeah, it really was nice of her,” Joe replied.  “I can see how she’d hate to lose that, it bein’ her boy and all.”

    “A family treasure—and a national one,” Adam agreed.

    Leaving the British department, the Cartwright brothers moved into a long gallery on the west side of the building.  Spain, one of the two countries exhibiting in that hall had sent only a few paintings, several of them with Christopher Columbus as their subject.  Joe gave them the briefest of glances, but he did try, for Hoss’s sake, to pay more attention to the paintings from Sweden, which shared the gallery.  The most prominent painting displayed there was Hockert’s Burning of the Royal Palace at Stockholm.

    Adam felt some concern as they viewed a couple of paintings whose subjects were drawn from Viking legend.  The Viking Fleet, for instance, could not help but recall memories of Hoss’s Uncle Gunnar once again, though perhaps more for Adam than for Joe.  Come to think of it, Adam reflected, Pa probably never told Joe about Gunnar’s dream of a Viking ship sailing off into the sunset.  All of us kind of skirt around mentioning anything about Gunnar to the boy.  Probably for the best.

    That same protective impulse made Adam direct his younger brother toward safer ground with the paintings of Baron Otto Hermelin, the Swedish Commissioner in charge of the Art Department.  “What do you think of this, Joe?” he asked, indicating a scene called Winter Day in the Neighborhood of Stockholm.

    “I like it,” Joe said with a smile, “and this one, too.”  He pointed to a work entitled The First Snow.

    “You always did look forward to the first snow of the season,” Adam recalled fondly.  “The rest of us would have been content to bundle up by the fire, but not you.  You just had to throw snowballs and build snowmen and drag your sled out of the barn the first time the ground was covered.”

    “Someone had to save you from taking root in the front room,” Joe muttered.

    “I suppose so,” Adam chuckled.  “One more small room, here in the southwest corner, and we will have finished this half of the building.”

    With a nod, Joe walked into the small gallery, bathed in rosy light from the windows of American stained glass.

    “Norway’s collection in the Annex is larger,” Adam observed.  “I think her better paintings are there, as well.”

    “Nothing wrong with these,” Joe said.  He was standing in front of two marine scenes by Hans Gude, A Fresh Breeze on the Norwegian Coast and Calm in Christianfiord.

    Adam smiled.  “Thinking of sailing off again?” he teased.

    “No,” Joe said bluntly.

    Adam drew in a long, slow breath.  Grumpy again, as he had been off and on all morning.  Well, it was drawing toward noon, and the kid had eaten a much lighter breakfast than usual.  Maybe it was plain ordinary hunger making Joe such a bear.  “You about ready for dinner?” Adam asked.

    “I guess so,” Joe said with an uncaring shrug.  He was hungry, although a little scared of putting anything into his touchy stomach.  Maybe it would help, though, if he did give it something to chew on besides itself.  He perked up a bit.  “Yeah, Adam, I’d like to eat.  What’s close?”

    “Unless you want a big meal, I thought we’d have sandwiches and coffee, maybe a confection at the Vienna Bakery.”

    “I don’t want a big meal,” Joe said quietly.

    “Let’s head out the north door then,” Adam suggested, “maybe look at the galleries near the entrance as we leave.”

    “Sure, whatever you say.”

    Deciding not to delay dinner long enough to see everything between them and the exit, Adam, instead, paused at the entrance to a small gallery just to the east of the north door.  “We won’t stay long, but I do want you to see the work of Auguste Rodin.  He’s living in Brussels now, so he’s exhibiting with the Belgians.”

    “Uh, what is he really?” Joe asked as they entered.

    Adam smiled.  “He’s French, like you, Joe, and shows great promise, from what I’ve read.”  As he had expected, Joe brightened immediately at the mention of his French heritage.

    It was not Rodin’s sculptures, however, that excited the greatest attention from the Cartwright brothers in that room.  Both were drawn forcefully toward the life-size marble by Charles Fraiken.  A Mother and Her First Child revived particularly poignant memories for Adam, for the chubby child in the mother’s arms reminded him of Hoss as a baby.  The mother looked more like a Roman matron than like Inger, but the look of love in her eyes was the same his Swedish stepmother had bestowed on her son— and on me.  There was always room in Inger’s heart for anyone who needed love—Pa, Hoss, me, even my motherless friend Jamie.  On second thought, though, Fraiken’s sculpture reminded Adam more of his second stepmother than his first.  “That’s the way your mother used to look at you,” he murmured, “like no one else was in the room.”

    Catching the hint of envy in his brother’s voice, Joe said, “I’ll bet your ma looked at you that way, too.”

    Adam pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Maybe.  I’d like to think so, but I lost her too young to have any memory at all.”

    Joe frowned, recognizing in Adam an attitude that had bothered him whenever it reared its infrequent, but irritating head.  “It wasn’t different for me.  I was young, too, Adam—not as young as you, but—”

    “I know,” Adam interrupted, again with that trace of self-pity in his tone, “but you have witnesses to tell you about your mother.”

    “So do you,” Joe insisted.  “Don’t you and Pa ever talk about stuff like that, Adam?”

    Adam appeared to find the ceiling enormously interesting.  “Not much.  My fault, I suppose, more than Pa’s,” he murmured.

    Touched now by genuine sympathy, Joe’s expression softened.  “Oh, Adam, you should.  It would do you good.”

    Uncomfortable with the pity in Joe’s voice, Adam rebuffed him gruffly.  “Oh, what would you know?  You’ve had it easy, kid, in just about every way there is.”

    Joe’s eyes filled with hurt, but he just bit his lip as another ripple of nausea left him without energy to argue.  If he’d felt up to it, he probably would have tried to make his older brother understand that just because Adam had grieved for three mothers, while he’d only lost one, didn’t make that one loss any less hard to bear.

    Sliding into the bentwood chairs at the Vienna Bakery, the Cartwright brothers both placed an order for a ham sandwich and coffee.  “It’s good coffee,” Adam commented when their meal had been served, “but it should be at twenty-five cents a cup!”

    Joe abruptly set the creamer down after realizing that he had already poured more thick cream than usual into his cup.  “I wasn’t going to have more than one, anyway.”

    “And I wasn’t chiding you,” Adam said.  “You sure got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, boy.”

    “Guess so.  Sorry.”

    Adam rolled his eyes.  The kid had turned laconic on him again, and he couldn’t fathom why.

    Joe nibbled at his sandwich, concentrating so intently on just getting it down that he made almost no contribution to the conversation at the table.  He managed to eat it all, though, and discovered, happily, that the food did seem to settle his stomach.

    “I’m going to try one of their ice cream confections,” Adam said.  “You?”

    “No, thanks,” Joe said, not wanting to push his luck.

    Adam laughed.  “You really meant it when you said you’d go easy on my pockets today!”

    “Well, if you’re so eager to spend money on me, I might take another cup of that two-bit coffee.”

    With a nod Adam gestured for a waiter, ordering another coffee with extra cream for Joe and a log cabin constructed of ladyfingers and ice cream for himself.

    Fortified with coffee and confection, the Cartwright brothers cut across the lawn toward Memorial Hall.  “I thought we might visit the Art Annex this afternoon,” Adam suggested.

    “What’s the difference?” Joe asked.  “It’s just an overflow from the main building, isn’t it?”

    “Well, yes,” Adam conceded, “but most of the sculpture is in the Annex, and I thought it might be well to see a good mixture today.”

    Joe frowned, for he had been enjoying the paintings and saw no reason for a sudden break from Adam’s established routine of seeing everything in a systematic order.  However, though he did feel better than he had before eating, he still wasn’t up to an argument, especially over something as foolish as which piece of art they saw next.

    Adam grew animated as they approached the entrance to the building directly behind Memorial Hall.  “The work of the most famous sculptors of Florence, Rome, Bologna and Milan is represented here, Joe.”

    They began with the works of Emanuele Caroni.  “He’s Professor of Fine Arts at the academy in Florence,” Adam declared didactically.  “This piece seems quite different from the rest of his work shown here.”

    “Don’t know; ain’t seen ‘em,” Joe said.

    Adam shook his head.  “We just passed . . . never mind; I’ll point them out soon,” Adam said.  “Now, will you please pay attention?”  He indicated again the sculpture of a seated woman, clad only in feathered headdress and skirt, hugging one bent leg.  “L’Africaine supposedly reveals the workings of the mind of a betrayed woman.  See how her eyes burn with passion?”

    “If you say so,” Joe muttered.

    “If you’d get your eyes off her bare breasts for five seconds, little brother . . .”

    “Fine,” Joe snapped.  “I’ll just put them on this little piece, instead.  Shouldn’t be anything about it for you to worry about!”

    Adam looked at the sculpture of a young child entitled First Sensation of Cold Water and smiled.  “Well, that off-the-shoulder look is a tad risqué, and she is pulling up her skirts,” he said, lips twitching.

    Joe groaned.  “I give up; you could find fault with anything.”

    Adam scratched the nape of his brother’s neck.  “Just teasing.  Caroni really captures children’s expressions well, doesn’t he?”

    Joe nodded.  “Yeah, I see what you mean.  Like this one.  Almost makes me shiver just looking at her.”  He indicated another marble by the same artist, this one called simply Cold.  The way the little barefoot girl huddled up in her thin apron conveyed the concept in a heart-rending picture of frigid misery.

    “Now, I know you’re bound to like this one,” Adam observed, pointing out a statue of a lovely woman, sending a carrier pigeon into flight.

    “Teasing again?” Joe asked flatly as he turned to look at Love’s Messenger.

    “Just a bit,” Adam said, pleased to see that Joe was taking the light ribbing more easily than he had earlier.  “I was mostly serious, though.  I thought this piece might please you because it is supposed to portray a young woman separated from her lover during the Siege of Paris.  The carrier pigeon is her only way to send him her message of amor.  I was sure the romance of that would appeal to you.”

    Joe smiled.  “The Siege of Paris, huh?  Yeah, it appeals to me—and so does she.  Quite a looker.”

    Adam gave him a smug nod.  “Yes, I was sure you would notice.”  He was equally sure that Joe had noted the way the sleeves of the nightgown dropped off both shoulders down to the level of her breasts, implying, without explicitly revealing, the young lady’s feminine allure.  “Well, before you get too lost in the lady’s assets,” he suggested, again in a light, teasing tone, “perhaps it would be better to cool your ardor with a nice patriotic statue or two.”  Taking Joe’s arm, he directed him toward two companion pieces by Romanetti, each showing an early American hero in his youth.

    Joe laughed when he saw little George Washington with his legendary hatchet.  “There they go, rewriting history again!  Why the wooden whistle for Ben Franklin?” he asked.

    “Oh, I suppose, to presage his inventive spirit and interest in how things work,” Adam mused.  “We’re probably supposed to assume he carved it himself.”  He noticed a large group of people gathered around a nearby statue and walked over to see what objet d’art was garnering such interest.  A single glance at Forced Prayer by Pietro Guarnerio told Adam why Centennial visitors found this sculpture so engaging.  Like him, they had no doubt viewed in their own homes a figure like that of this sulking boy in the nightshirt, being compelled to say his bedtime prayers.  Adam laughed in delighted recognition.  “He reminds me of you, little buddy!”

    Joe grimaced, the expression making him look even more like the little sculpture’s twin.  “Aw, come on.  I always said my prayers, good as gold.”

    “Only because you had so much to repent of at the end of each day,” Adam teased, “and, believe me, there were nights you had to be forced.”  Joe scowled as if the jest had left a vile taste in his mouth and walked toward the next sculpture, hand on his side.  Shaking his head, Adam followed, at a loss to explain his brother’s wide mood swings.  Joe had seemed pleasanter since lunch, but now he was prickly as a cactus again. Dealing with him was like moving through a maze of Saguaros; sooner or later you were bound to brush up against one of their two-inch spines.

    The brothers toured through the Italian department without a single comment from Little Joe, and all Adam’s attempts to inspire the boy’s interest met only with a cursory nod.  Just when Adam had decided nothing could arouse Joe again, they came across a sculpture that hit his younger brother with more force than any yet.  “Whoa!  Get a look at that!” Joe cried, staring in amazement at the voluptuous figure portrayed in Philadelphia artist Howard Roberts’ La Première Pose.

    Adam moaned, pressing his fingertips to his forehead.  Of course, it would be a nude woman that caught Joe’s wanton eye!  This one, unlike other figures that had been gracefully draped, displayed every enticing curve and showed the nipples pertly peaked.  Adam quickly shushed his brother’s exuberance.  “It’s intended to make you appreciate the beauty of the female form, not to arouse your lust,” he hissed.

    “Oh, I appreciate it, Adam.  You’d better believe I appreciate that!”

    Rolling his eyes, Adam let him gaze for a while at the tempting form, but when Joe showed no inclination to move on—ever—Adam hooked his arm to drag him away.  “Somehow I think your desire to linger here has nothing to do with artistic appreciation, boy,” he said sternly.

    The minute he approached the next section, though, Adam knew he was only leaping from the frying pan of adolescent arousal directly into the raging fires of blazing ardor.  “Just my luck,” he muttered, shaking his head when Joe glanced quizzically up at him.  The French, with their love of the female form, would provide literally unending opportunities for Joe to gawk at naked women.

    With total predictability Joe’s eyes widened as they approached the first marble, a delicate, airy figure of Aurora.  Only the long train of a drape that wound around her hips and covered almost nothing else touched the pedestal of the statue, as Aurora floated with her arms above her head, the left hand dangling a bunch of grapes toward her wavy tresses.  It was obvious to Adam that he was going to have to drag his brother reluctantly away from this vision of womanhood, as well.

    Just as Adam was about to remind Joe that Aurora was not the only sculpture in the hall, a gray-haired woman, dressed in a high-necked dress of navy silk and accompanied by a tall, much younger, man, approached the same statue and gasped in horror.  “Appalling!” she cried.  “How like the French to flaunt both decency and good taste by exhibiting this—this scandalous vulgarity.”  With a sideways glance, she noticed Joe staring at the statue with avid attention.  “Avert your eyes, young man!” she demanded with regal authority.  “Have you no shame, no proper upbringing?”

    Joe’s anger at the disparagement of his father reddened his cheeks.  Had his critic been a man, he would most likely have answered with a fast-flying fist to the jaw, but since it was a woman, and an elderly one at that, he answered politely, with the respect he had always been taught to show his elders.  “But, ma’am, it’s a beautiful work of art.  I don’t see anything—”

    The woman’s dapper companion interrupted brusquely, “To the contrary, boy, you have already seen entirely too much of this brazen example of French debauchery.”

    Fire flashed in Joe’s eyes and his nostrils flared at this further insult to his French heritage, and since this was no elderly lady who must be respected, his knuckles tightened instinctively.  Recognizing the danger signals, Adam grabbed his brother’s left wrist.  “Let’s go, Joe,” he ordered firmly.

    “I intend to file a protest with the Centennial Commission for exhibiting such a detriment to the morals of our American youth,” the woman declared with a prim nod.

    “Indeed, mother!” the owlish-looking young man at her side agreed forcefully.  “Perhaps we should demonstrate what people of good character feel about such so-called ‘works of art.’”  With a pointed glance at Little Joe, he lifted his mahogany walking stick and deliberately thrust it under Aurora’s ample belly, knocking the lovely lady off balance.

    Adam let go of Joe’s wrist and made a frantic grab for the statue as it toppled toward the floor, while Joe, freed from restraint, lunged at the vandal.  Setting Aurora safely upright, Adam breathed a sigh of relief until he turned to see his younger brother take a glancing blow to the stomach.  To Adam’s surprise, Joe immediately doubled up and fell to the floor.  As he started toward his brother, out of the corner of his eye Adam saw the self-proclaimed defender of the morals of American youth draw back his foot, obviously intending to kick his fallen foe.  Outrage powered Adam’s solid fist, and soon the cane-wielding assailant of marble women and stricken boys found himself careening backward, knocking over yet another priceless work of art as he fell.

    Ignoring the man sprawled on the floor, Adam seized the statue rocking on its pedestal and hugged it protectively to his chest, as he landed, bottom first, in the aisle.  A silly grin split his face as he realized that he had once more rescued a Frenchman’s work from ending its artistic life in shattered fragments in Philadelphia.  “Joe,” he called.  “Take this and—”

    “I’ll be the one taking that,” a harsh voice above Adam’s head growled.

    Adam rolled his head back and stared up into the livid face of a man in the dark blue uniform of a Centennial Guard.

    “Hand it over nice and gentle, if you will, sir,” the guard dictated, reaching for the sculpture with white-cotton-gloved hands.

    Adam willingly released it and scrambled to his feet as the guard gingerly set the small statue back on its pedestal.  “Thank you, officer,” Adam began when suddenly he felt his arms pinioned behind him.  “No, wait, you don’t understand,” he protested as a second uniformed guard hustled him toward the exit.

    The first guard hauled the victim of Adam’s punch to his feet, with one hand gripping that man’s elbow, while the other took firm hold of Little Joe’s slender arm.  “Come along peaceably, please, gentlemen.”  The voice, though courteous, brooked no argument, although that didn’t stop either of the men he’d taken into custody from loudly proclaiming his own innocence and the guilt of the other party.  The mother of the Cartwrights’ opponent trailed behind, shrieking that her son had done nothing wrong.

    Neither of the guards paid the slightest attention.  They saw their duty clearly and performed it with diligence and vigor.  “Oh, we’ll let you go,” the one wrestling Adam outside assured him.  “A little time in one of our holding cells, and we’ll be more than glad to escort you to the front gate, sir, with instructions to keep you out from this day forward.  Rambunctious guests are not welcome on the Centennial grounds.”

    Rambunctious guest!  Adam was indignant at the false accusation and aghast at the threat of expulsion from the Exposition he’d come three thousand miles to view.  “If you’d just listen,” he protested as the guard roughly propelled him out the door, “I can explain.”

    “Officer, officer, please wait,” cried a young woman, hurrying down the steps after the guards and their prisoners.

    The guards turned and, pleased with what they saw, willingly waited until the young lady reached them.  “One of these belong to you, miss?” the head guard asked, struggling to maintain his professional bearing in the face of such loveliness.

    The woman shook her head with a demure smile.  “No, officers, I’m a stranger to all these gentlemen.  I must, however, speak in the interest of justice, as I saw the outbreak of this deplorable fracas and cannot bear to see the innocent condemned with the guilty.”

    “Sure and we wouldn’t want that,” the second guard said, his smile almost sappy with admiration of the forthright young woman, who had just been joined by another man.

    “Are you a witness, too, sir?” the first guard asked of the newcomer.

    “No, sir, I didn’t see the beginning of the brawl,” the man stated, “although I did see this man strike the other to the ground.”

    Adam’s heart plummeted as he saw the accusing finger pointed at him.  It soared again, though, as the young woman gently rested a hand on the man’s arm.  “No, darling,” she said quickly.  “This young man is not the instigator.  That one is.”  She pointed to the irate easterner in the grip of the second guard.  “Officers, these two young men actually saved the statue of Aurora after that brute deliberately pushed it off its pedestal,” she explained, indicating Adam and Joe.  “They deserve commendation, not confinement with that horrid man who attempted to destroy a work of art.”

    “Oh, that’s the way of it, is it?”  The subordinate guard glared at the man collared in his left hand, giving him a little shake to convey his disapproval of anyone who would assault a woman, marble or otherwise.

    “Gentlemen, you may trust implicitly the word of my wife,” the gentleman at her side said.  “She is a woman of honor and integrity.”

    “I’ve every confidence of that, sir,” the chief guard declared.  “For the love of mercy, Patrick, unhand that innocent boy,” he growled at the other guard, releasing his hold on Adam as he spoke.

    “Oh, yes, sir, of course,” Patrick babbled, turning loose of Little Joe.

    The chief guard doffed his hat.  “My apologies, gentlemen, for the mix-up.  Feel free to continue your tour of the grounds.  I would ask, however, that you do so in another building.  However well-intentioned, your actions placed some valuable artwork in jeopardy.”

    “Understood,” Adam said curtly, straightening his frock coat.  As the guards marched the culprit off to a holding cell, Adam turned to the woman who had spared him and his brother a similar fate.  “Thank you for speaking up for us,” he said warmly.

    The young woman smiled back.  “As I said, I merely spoke in the interest of justice, as any American citizen should.”

    “Quite so,” her husband added.  “I’m proud of you, my dear.  Now, shall we return to the Annex?  We’d barely begun to explore its wonders when this miserable business started.”

    Adam extended his hand to the gentleman.  “We won’t delay you further.  Thank you again for your prompt and most helpful intervention.”  Irritated by his brother’s failure to speak, he gruffly ordered him to thank the young lady.

    “Oh, yeah, thanks, ma’am,” a distracted Joe hastened to add.  “It was mighty good of you.”

    She patted his arm in passing.  “Not at all.  Enjoy the Centennial, young man.”  On the arm of her husband, she walked back into the Art Annex.

    “‘Enjoy the Centennial.’  If she only knew what a challenge that is with you in tow!” Adam snarled, folding his arms and tucking his hands beneath his armpits to control the urge to throttle his exasperating younger brother.  “You ill-mannered lout!  You just couldn’t hold your temper, could you?”

    Joe’s face was the picture of offended innocence.  “Look, all I was doing was trying to keep him from doing more harm to your precious artwork.”

    A cynical sneer curled Adam’s lip.  “All you were doing was looking for an excuse to fight after he insulted your French ancestry.”

    “That ain’t fair, Adam!”

    “Isn’t fair!” Adam bellowed.  “The least you could do is use proper grammar.”  He would have said more had he not at that moment seen Little Joe wipe the blood dripping from his nose with the back of has hand.  His fury with his younger brother immediately drained out, to be replaced with guilt as he realized that he hadn’t even noticed that the boy was injured.  Catching hold of Joe’s face, he tipped it back, trying to assess the damage.  “Hold still!” he demanded when Joe tried to flinch away.  “Come on; let’s get you to the Centennial Medical Department and get that looked after.”

    “I don’t need lookin’ after,” Joe snapped, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and holding it to his nose.

    “You need constant ‘lookin’ after,’” Adam snorted.  “Now, you promised Pa you’d respect my authority, and I’m fully persuaded he would expect me to exercise it in this situation, so come on!”

    One hand to his nose, the other holding his right side, Joe followed his brother down the Avenue of the Republic.  “Adam, please,” he pleaded.  “It’ll stop in a minute.”

    “Not another word,” Adam ordered, solid fingers closing around Joe’s right biceps.  “I want a doctor to look at it and make sure it isn’t broken.”

    Joe groaned at the mention of a doctor, but the look on Adam’s face told him there was absolutely nothing to be gained by disputing the edict.  He allowed himself to be steered, like a calf headed for the branding pen, onto Agricultural Avenue toward the unassuming building at the western end of Lansdowne Valley.

     The Cartwright brothers, one forcefully, the other with flagging footsteps, walked up two steps and under an American flag stretched across the entrance to the Centennial Medical Department, a six-bed infirmary for guests injured or taken ill during their visit to the grounds.  A man in a white coat met them inside, introducing himself as Dr. William Pepper, resident physician in charge of the facility.  “I think I see what the problem is,” he said with a smile.  “Are you frequently subject to nosebleeds, young man?”

    “No,” Joe responded tersely.

    “Only when he’s been in an altercation,” Adam supplied.  “I thought it wise to have him checked.”

    “Certainly—a wise precaution,” Dr. Pepper said.  “If you’ll step into the men’s ward, young man, I’ll have one of my associates examine you.”

    “I’m fine,” Joe muttered, not moving.

    “His standard answer,” Adam informed the doctor.  Then he turned a narrowed gaze on his younger brother.  “Get in there,” he ordered, pointing to the door on their left, “and don’t give the doctor any more trouble.”

    “I’m sure Dr. Barnes will be able to handle one rather reluctant patient,” Dr. Pepper chuckled.  He followed the Cartwrights into the men’s ward and, catching the eye of Dr. Barnes, motioned him over and explained the nature of the case.

    Dr. Barnes had Joe sit in a chair and gave his nose a thorough examination.  “Nothing broken,” he assured the patient and his brother, “and I’m sure we can get that nosebleed stopped quickly.”  He had Little Joe lie down on one of the three iron beds in the room, holding a cloth rolled around chips of ice to his nose.  “He appears fine,” Dr. Barnes said to Adam, “but it might be best if he rested quietly for an hour or two, just as a precaution.”

    Joe propped himself up on his elbows.  “I’m all right.  I don’t need doctoring, and I don’t need rest.”

    “You need to do as you’re told,” Adam said sharply.  “Besides, I think you’ve caused quite enough commotion for one day, little brother, so if the doctor thinks you need to rest, then rest you shall and that is final.”

    “The doctor does think it best,” Dr. Barnes reiterated, removing Joe’s shoes and then disappearing discreetly.

    Little Joe fell back onto the pillow, his face etched with disgruntlement.

    “Oh, don’t make such a production out of it,” Adam scolded.  “I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour or two.”

    “Where are you going?” Joe demanded.

    “Wherever I choose, little boy!” Adam snapped.  “I have no intention of seeing my afternoon spoiled simply because you can’t keep your fists to yourself.  Now, behave yourself and I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”  He strode briskly from the room.

    Lips taut, Joe watched him walk away and for a moment gave serious consideration to simply getting up and leaving himself.   Better sense prevailed, though, for Joe realized that he had too much to lose by any display of disobedience.  “Step over the line once, and you’ll be packing your bags,” Adam had threatened after that Shantyville fiasco, and Joe knew the threat was no idle one.  Adam always meant what he said and was, in fact, far more likely to carry out promised discipline than Pa.

    Joe curled up on his right side, realizing with a degree of surprise that he really did feel better lying down.  He hadn’t expected to crumple as easily as he had back in the Art Annex, but the nagging pain that had subsided after eating had exploded when that dude punched him in the stomach, and he couldn’t have stayed on his feet to save his life.  Fortunately, Adam hadn’t noticed.  Now that Joe was resting, the pain was starting to fade again, so although he felt insulted by Adam’s accusatory attitude, he decided the orders were providential and, closing his eyes, he drifted into a light sleep.

    Adam, meantime, had paused briefly outside the Medical Department, not sure which way to go.  Despite his careful planning of each day’s activities, his little brother’s irresponsible behavior had completely disrupted that well-thought-out scheme.  “I will not let him spoil my day,” Adam muttered as he turned south and retraced his steps back to the Avenue of the Republic.  He’ll miss seeing some of the finest art in the world, but his interest obviously inclines more to the earthy than the aesthetic, anyway!

    He went first to the Photographic Gallery, a tiny building just outside Memorial Hall and indulged himself in a thorough examination of its French Renaissance architecture, a pleasure he had curtailed with other buildings out of pity for a boy who, frankly, deserved none.  To avoid monotony, bay windows and porticos broke up the long line of the building’s 128-foot length.  The single-story structure simply wasn’t as captivating as the more major ones, however, so Adam soon went inside to admire its lofty interior.

    The roof was the finest feature, for it was constructed completely of glass, providing a clear, soft light for the photographs hung on twenty-eight screens up and down the length of the room.  “Brings out the most delicate details,” he murmured, abashed when he realized that he had spoken aloud, when he had no one with whom to share his delighted observation.  Up and down the aisles he walked, pausing here and there before a particularly affecting scene, but again the landscapes reminded him of Little Joe’s favorite part of all the educational exhibits they had trudged through in the Main Exhibition Hall.  Really shouldn’t have taken this out of order.  Now he’ll miss it, and he would really have enjoyed this.

    Knowing he might not get another chance, however, Adam completed the building, and then walked next door to Memorial Hall.  He paused inside the central gallery to purchase some photographs of paintings and sculptures he and Joe had already seen, but again guilt stabbed at his soul.  Joe should be helping to make these choices for Pa and Hoss.  Well, it was done, and still only an hour had passed.  Should he return to the Medical Department and fetch his brother or let him have a full two-hours’ rest?  Better safe than sorry, Adam decided with a sigh whose intensity surprised him.  Might as well admit it; I miss the little scamp.  Now, what do I look at for an hour that would be of least interest to him?

    Almost instinctively, he passed through Memorial Hall and crossed the lawn to the annex behind it.  He walked inside, hoping no one would recognize him as one of the men ousted from there earlier, and his hope was realized.  He gazed with admiration at the sculptures, telling himself that it was probably for the best to keep Little Joe away from any more provocative statuary.  Conscience, however, was eating away at him.  After all, the scuffle that had taken place wasn’t really Joe’s fault.  The boy had merely been trying, although through admittedly ill-advised means, to defend a work of art.  I was too harsh with him, Adam realized with regret, and suddenly none of the beautiful pieces of marble and bronze held any attraction for him.  The only thing he wanted to see was his brother’s face.

    Dr. Barnes stood up as Adam approached his desk at the front of the men’s ward a short time later.  “Mr. Cartwright,” he said, extending his hand.

    Adam glanced with concern at Little Joe, lying motionless in the middle bed.  “How is my brother?”

    “He’s fine,” Dr. Barnes assured him.  “I was a bit concerned when he fell asleep so soon after you left.”

    Adam laughed lightly.  “That’s my little brother; get him still for five minutes and he’s out like a snuffed candle.  Been that way since he was a kid.”

    The doctor smiled.  “I surmised that might be the case.  I woke him after about an hour, just to ascertain that there was no concussion involved, although you hadn’t mentioned a head injury.”  He looked across at the slumbering boy and chuckled.  “He’s free to go, if you can rouse him.  Didn’t seem to appreciate it much when I did.”

    Adam grinned.  “That’s typical, too.”  He walked over, sat down on Joe’s bed and began patting his cheeks.  “Up and at ‘em, Sleeping Beauty.”

    Joe yawned and stirred groggily.  “Hmm?”

    “Bail’s been paid; you’re free to go,” Adam teased.

    “Oh, you,” Joe muttered.

    The flatness in his brother’s voice sent another stab through Adam’s conscience.  “Yeah, me,” he responded quietly.  “Come on, little brother, and let’s see what we can of the Centennial.”

    Joe nodded, sat up and slipped on his shoes.  “Where we headed?  Not back to the Annex, I guess.”

    “No, not today,” Adam replied.  “I thought we’d just see whatever falls in our path on the way to supper.  How does the Southern Restaurant strike you?”

    “Okay,” Joe said.

    Adam had expected a more animated response, but Joe was probably still put out with him for depriving him, as the boy surely saw it, of an afternoon of fun.  “The German Government Building is near here,” Adam said.  “We missed that yesterday, so if you don’t mind . . . ”

    “Whatever you want.”  Again, nothing but flat, disinterested acquiescence.

    “Come on then, buddy,” Adam said, draping an affectionate arm over his brother’s hunched shoulders.  Joe didn’t try to move away, which Adam took as a good sign, although the lack of response continued to bother him.

    The German Government Building was just across a winding path from the Medical Department, so the two brothers were standing in front of it only a couple of minutes after leaving the latter.  “Notice anything different?” Adam asked.

    “Not particularly,” Joe said in a monotone, eyes no higher than the foundation.

    Adam sighed.  “You’re still upset with me, aren’t you?”

    Joe finally looked up.  “No.  I think you were wrong to blame me, but it doesn’t matter, Adam.”  Nothing does—except this miserable stitch in my side.

    “I was wrong to blame you,” Adam admitted.

    “Doesn’t mean much after the punishment’s over, big brother,” Joe grunted with a shade of bitterness.

    “Punishment?”  Adam looked puzzled; then suddenly he knew what his brother meant.  “That wasn’t punishment, Joe; that was concern for your well being.”

    “Sure.”  Flat monotone again, not even the faint bitterness to give the words character.

    Adam dropped his arm from Joe’s shoulder and rubbed his hand across his mouth.  Despite Joe’s assertion, it was obvious that he was still holding a grudge.  Nothing was likely to change that but time, so Adam resolved to just wait it out.  After all, he was somewhat responsible for the kid’s sour mood, so it behooved him to show a little extra patience.  Joe was notorious for his lack of that virtue, but he sure knew how to strain the supply of anyone trying to give him an example of endurance in action.

    “The building material,” Adam said.

    “Huh?”

    “That’s the difference I wanted to you to see,” Adam explained.  “Most of the other government buildings are wooden, while this is constructed of brick, plastered to represent stone.  Care to guess the architectural style?”

    “Georgian,” Joe responded woodenly.

    Adam took a deep breath and reached for another measure of fast-fading patience.  “No, Joe, it’s nothing like Georgian.  It’s Italian Renaissance.  The prominent feature is the spacious portico.”

    “Okay.”

    Adam gave up.  “Let’s go inside,” he suggested.

    As he moved up the broad steps, Joe held to the wide balustrade at their side.  He and Adam passed through the portico into a square central hall with government offices on one side and gentlemen’s and ladies’ parlors on the other.

    “Joe, look up,” Adam urged, hoping the elaborately frescoed ceiling, at least, would capture the boy’s attention.

    Joe followed the instruction and rewarded his brother with a ghost of a smile.  A giant black eagle with red talons, wings spread wide, soared across the ceiling, while garlands and Cupids and other figures ran around the edges.  “That’s something,” Joe agreed.  It was the only thing about the German building that sparked the slightest interest, however, and that included the neighboring building, where native wines were exhibited.

    If this doesn’t work, I give up, Adam told himself as he guided Joe out the back of the German Building and headed toward a small one just to the northwest.  “This is the French Ceramic Pavilion,” he informed his brother.  “The French had so many ceramics to display that they needed more room than could be afforded them in the Main Building.  Would you care to see them?”

    Joe’s eyes lighted and a soft smile touched his lips.  “Yes, I would.”

    Pleased with the effectiveness of his cure, Adam playfully swept his arm toward the entrance, and Joe returned an even broader smile.  The smile remained as they toured through the building, but it was a very small one and Joe’s interest seemed to wane the minute they left.

    Adam decided to forego all but the New Jersey State building, only electing to visit it because it lay directly across the path from the restaurant.  “This building has a unique structure,” he said, trying to keep alive the spark ignited by French ceramics.  “Almost Norwegian in style.  Makes for quite a fanciful appearance, don’t you think, Joe?”

    “Fanciful?  Uh, yeah, sure, Adam, whatever you say,” Joe mumbled.  “You’re the architecture expert.”

    Adam pursed his lips.  “I take it I’m boring you.”

    “I’m sorry,” Joe said quickly.  “I’m just kind of tired, I guess.  Didn’t sleep too good last night.”

    Adam nodded, relieved to have finally discovered what must surely be the key to Joe’s lackluster manner all day.  “I’ll bet you’re hungry, too.”

    “I can wait,” Joe said.  “Look as long as you want.”

    “Very generous of you,” Adam said with a paternal smile, “but I believe it’s time for supper—for both of us.”

    “Okay.”

    The two brothers walked across the street and were escorted into one of the four large dining rooms of the Southern Restaurant.  Seated at the linen-draped table, Adam peered around a huge vase of fresh flowers at his brother.  “Know what you want yet?”

    “No.  What are you having?” Joe asked.

    “I’m not sure.  Possibly the fried chicken.”  Adam laughed.  “It’s practically the only thing on the menu that reflects southern cuisine—that and the hominy.”

    Knowing he was supposed to, Joe smiled.  “Guess I won’t eat southern style then.”

    “Oh?  I thought you were fond of fried chicken.  You certainly polish it off whenever it hits the table at home!”

    Little Joe didn’t want to say so, but the very thought of anything as greasy as fried chicken turned his stomach.  “Just want to try something else,” he muttered.

    Adam easily accepted the explanation.  Trying new foods was an activity his little brother had been engaging in throughout their stay in Philadelphia.  What his brother eventually chose, however, wasn’t anything unfamiliar, just a platter of Smithfield ham, with the hominy and green beans.

    “You ain’t gonna be sorry, young sir,” the Negro waiter said, face glowing, though whether from pleasure or plain ordinary sweat, Joe couldn’t decide.

    After the waiter took Adam’s order of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, carrots and green peas, Joe propped his elbows on the white tablecloth and listened to the music of the old-time plantation singers, their plaintive melodies accompanied by banjo.  He seemed to relax for the first time that day.  “Guess it used to be like this at the end of a hard day’s work down New Orleans way,” he observed dreamily.

    Adam’s visage darkened.  “Exactly like this,” he practically growled.  “Men who’d sweated in the fields all day making music for those who’d done nothing but rest on their forefathers’ laurels.”

    Joe straightened up, aware that he’d given offense, but not sure just how.  “Something wrong?”

    “Nothing you’d understand,” Adam sighed.  “I fought a war to change that way of life, that gracious living based on the exploitation of others, and all you can see is how pleasant it was—for the white owners, that is.”

    “I thought you fought to free the slaves, not to destroy a way of life,” Joe said.

    “Well, look at them.”  Adam waved his hand toward the dark-skinned men serving food, pouring drinks and providing entertainment.  “Still doing the same work they did before the war, waiting on white people.  Nothing’s changed.”

    “It’s not a bad job, is it, so long as you get paid for it?”

    Adam shook his head.  There was no way the kid could ever understand.  Having grown up in the West, where slavery had never gained a foothold, Little Joe had no concept of how ugly it could be, how it could deprive a man of his dignity, his hope, his dreams.  While he was glad that his little brother remained that innocent, he had to make one attempt to open those naïve emerald orbs.  “The black man won’t truly be free, Joe, until he’s free to be whatever he wants—doctor, lawyer . . .”

    “Beggar man, thief?” Joe parried, sounding more like his old self than he had all day.

    Caught off guard, Adam laughed.  “Well, yes, even that, if a man’s truly free—although, hopefully, a man who cherishes his freedom will make a better choice!”

    Joe lifted a hand in mock solemnity, as if taking an oath in court.  “I will, brother; I promise I will.  I’ve seen all of the police I care to!”

    Shaking his head in amusement, Adam gave up all attempts at serious conversation.  Their food arrived, and Adam, who was hungrier than usual after the light lunch, attacked his meal with relish.  Looking up, he noticed that Joe had hardly eaten half of what was on his plate.  “Food not to your liking?” he inquired.

    Joe licked his lips hesitantly.  “The ham’s got a pretty strong flavor, but it’s fine.  Just figured I’d turn in early, since I didn’t sleep so good last night, and I think it might be better if I don’t eat too close to bedtime.  Probably what kept me awake last night.”

    “Could be,” Adam conceded, easily buying the lie.  “So, you’re going to spare my pocketbook the price of dessert?”

    “Just this once,” Joe said with a forced smile.   He lowered his guilty gaze to the plateful of unappetizing food, wondering when that come-again, go-again ache in his belly would just go.
 

    Moaning softly, Little Joe rolled to his right side and drew his knees up to his chest, seeking in vain a comfortable position.  The pain that had troubled him off and on throughout the previous day had subsided shortly after he’d gone to bed, only to return with renewed intensity a few hours later.  As darkness crept toward dawn, the stabbing pain settled low in his right abdomen and refused to leave.

    Chilled despite the sweltering heat of the summer night, Joe pulled the lightweight blanket up to his chin, but it offered no warmth to his shivering flesh.  While he had not yet vomited, each passing minute sent stronger surges of nausea through his stomach, and Joe felt that it was only a matter of time before he would have to empty its contents, either in the water closet down the hall or in his washbasin if the attack hit too suddenly for him to make it that far.

    Joe knew that the time for keeping secrets had passed; yet he still couldn’t bring himself to call out to Adam.  It simply wasn’t in his nature to admit to physical weakness until there was no alternative, so he shifted restlessly from side to side as the hours dragged by, both anticipating and dreading the coming of day.  Finally, soft light began to filter through the window curtains, and hearing footsteps pattering around in the next room and the splash of water being poured into a basin, Joe sighed in submission to the inevitable and reluctantly tossed back the covers.  Struggling to his feet, he pressed his hand against his right side and staggered toward the door.  He passed through the parlor to his brother’s room, where, through the open doorway, he could see Adam, still clad in his striped nightshirt, performing his morning ablutions.  Supporting himself with a hand against the left doorjamb, Joe swallowed hard and softly called his brother’s name.

    Bent over the washbasin, Adam tossed a glance over his shoulder.  “Up early, Sleeping Beauty?  We’ll have to tuck you into bed early every night if it promotes such salutary behavior.”  He splashed cold water on his face to rinse off the soap lather.  “Seriously, it’s good to see you up and around.  Thanks to yesterday’s debacle at the Art Annex, we have some ground to make up, so I want us to be at the Centennial the minute the gates open.”  He reached for the towel hanging on a rod at the side of the washstand.

    Joe winced.  Adam had blamed that “debacle” on him, and now he was going to have to spoil another day’s enjoyment of the Exposition for his brother.  “Adam, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to make it,” he whispered weakly.  “I-I’m feelin’ kinda under the weather.”  It was, of course, a mild description of how he actually felt, but he remained reluctant to acknowledge the full truth.  While confession might be good for the soul, in Joe’s experience confessions of illness tended to lead to the undesirable consequences of being bundled into bed and subjected to the attentions of a doctor.

    Adam turned, slowly dragging the towel down over his face to reveal eyes hard and dark as ebony.  “Do you seriously expect me to fall for that again?” he asked coldly.

    “What?”  Joe raised perplexed eyes to his brother’s face.

    Tossing the towel aside, Adam folded his arms across his chest and rolled his tongue around in his mouth before speaking.  “You know, it would be a lot more believable if you were trying to cover being sick.  The only times I ever remember you admitting to illness were those convenient ones that manifested themselves when there was something you wanted to avoid—like the opera the other night.  What is it this time, a clandestine visit to the fair Penelope, perhaps?”

    Feeling like the boy who cried wolf in the old fable, Joe flushed with shame and frustration.  “Adam, no,” he protested softly, but insistently.  “It’s not like that.  I-I’m really sick this time.”

    “Sure you are,” Adam snorted.  “Sick of following instructions, sick of doing things my way, sick of—”

    Joe brought his chin up, his right hand pressed to his side.  “No.  I swear, Adam!”

    “Don’t compound your transgressions by swearing, boy!” Adam snapped.

    Joe could feel his lips start to tremble.  “Adam, please believe me,” he pleaded.  “I’ve been sick since yesterday, just tryin’ to hide it, like always.”

    The rigid set of Adam’s jaw reflected rejection.  “Oh, excellent,” he praised scornfully.  “Yes, indeed, little brother, you are becoming quite the accomplished actor.  Setting this up by your behavior yesterday shows a definite refinement of your dramatic skills.  Now, if you could just manage to shed a tear or two, you might affect some slight credibility.”

    The emerald eyes did, indeed, swim with tears at the harsh words, but Joe managed to blink them back.  “I guess I can’t blame you for thinking that,” he said, “but I’m telling the truth this time, Adam.  I really don’t feel good.”

    Adam waved a hand to silence his brother.  “You know, Joe, I just don’t care anymore.  I have tried to show you a good time.”

    “I know, and—”

    “Shut up, Joe!” Adam shot back sharply.  “I won’t listen to another word, but you hear me well, boy.  You have done everything possible to make me sorry that I invited you on this trip, and I am the one who is sick, sick of the complaints, the outright disobedience and, most of all, the deception.  So, you just do whatever you want today—saunter down to Shantyville, traipse over to the zoo, visit the Centennial without your big brother’s watchful eye to keep you in line—whatever you want.  But cover your tracks well, little boy, because if I find out you’ve set one foot outside this hotel, I will put you on the next train home and let Pa deal with you!”

    “Adam, please!”

    “Not another word!” Adam hissed hotly.  “I don’t have any more time to waste with you.  Now, if you really want to make this ruse look realistic, you should put yourself back to bed and be certain not to leave it until I’m well away.  You remember how to stage that scene, don’t you, little brother?”

    Fearful his moisture-laden eyes would betray him, Joe turned away, walked back into his bedroom and, falling onto the bed, buried his face in his pillow.

    With a contemptuous snort, Adam threw off his nightshirt and began to dress for his day at the Centennial.  He didn’t even glance into Joe’s room before he left, slamming the door.  Too angry to stay beneath the same roof as his prevaricating younger brother, he disdained breakfast in the dining room, deciding he would treat himself to more of the fine pastries of the Vienna Bakery and, perhaps, a rich cup of coffee at the Brazilian Café.

    As he walked toward the streetcar stop, Adam rehearsed his brother’s faults and failures, and his temper blazed hotter with each step.  By the time he leaped onto the car, his mind was a raging inferno, whose flames he fueled by repeatedly running the catalog of Joe’s offenses, from selfishly grabbing the window seat the moment they got on the train at Mill Station to this morning’s stellar performance of counterfeit illness.  Can’t believe he tried the same stunt a second time, Adam fumed.  Does he take me for a complete fool?  Well, maybe that’s justified, ‘cause I certainly was a fool to pick him for this trip.  Why on earth didn’t I follow my heart and bring Hoss, instead?  But, no, I had to make the grand gesture, had to sacrifice my personal pleasure for that little wretch’s educational benefit, and this is my just reward for extending generosity to the hopelessly ungrateful.  Well, never again, little brother.

    As his exhausted anger began to drain, however, Adam found himself bombarded with images.  He saw first the grief in his brother’s eyes when he’d accused him of lying that morning.  Just part of the act, Adam assured himself, but other images pressed in on him, the most insistent that first view over his shoulder of Joe, leaning against the doorjamb with his left hand, while the right clutched his side.  Something about that picture bothered Adam; somehow it seemed familiar, and because he couldn’t figure out why, the image wouldn’t leave.

    Then he remembered.  He’d seen that same gesture several times the day before, particularly after that scuffle in the Art Annex.  Was it possible that Joe had been injured?  Adam dismissed the idea as ridiculous.  That eastern dandy had gone down like the weakling he was under Adam’s own punch, so he couldn’t possibly have done Joe any real damage.  Still, Joe had doubled up, holding his side, under that flea flick of a blow.  Part of the act?  It had to be.  Nothing else made sense.

    Adam settled back in his seat, determined to ignore the disquieting thoughts, but something kept niggling away at his brain, something just beyond recall.  He couldn’t get away from the vague feeling of unrest that crawled through him every time he pictured that hand touching the right side.  He’d seen that gesture before, somewhere, and not just yesterday.  Sometime before that—sometime long before that—and not with Joe.

    Adam jolted upright as the long buried memory surfaced.  Dear God, no!  It couldn’t be.  He suddenly remembered seeing another boy holding his side the way Joe had yesterday and this morning.  Luke Cameron had been a bosom companion during Adam’s college days, a boy much like his younger brother in personality—lighthearted, fun-loving, carefree and altogether too apt to impulsively rush in where angels feared to tread.  How he’d ever passed the entrance exams at Yale remained a mystery to Adam, for Luke had always chosen frolic over study and had succeeded on far too many occasions in drawing his more sober friend into some hare-brained adventure.  So much like Joe in that, too.

    The resemblance that troubled Adam most, however, was that now-terrifying hand to the side.  Luke had gone around campus, holding his side like that for two days before finally yielding to the pleas of his friends to see a doctor, and the doctor’s diagnosis of perityphlitis had proven to be a death sentence.  During the final hours Adam had sat at Luke’s bedside, holding his hand as he writhed in agony that no pain medication could touch.  Only the battlefields of the war had produced memories of greater horror.

    The streetcar stopped before the main entrance to the Centennial grounds, and Adam automatically stepped off.  Throngs of people pushed past him toward the gate, but Adam couldn’t go inside, instead pacing agitatedly up and down the sidewalk.  He’s faking, he told himself. He has to be faking.  But how would Joe have known to copy that gesture?  A good actor he might be, but how could he play a scene he’d never seen in life?

    He couldn’t, and the moment Adam accepted that, the fear that had been scratching at the back of his mind sank its talons deep into his brain.  He closed his eyes and grasped his lowered head with one hand as he tried to slow his racing heartbeat and deepen his shallow breaths.  As his fingers touched his own forehead, he realized that he had not so much as checked to see whether his brother had a fever.  Even if I thought he was shamming, I owed him that much, he chided himself.

    He glanced at the gate before him, trying to convince himself to just go inside and ignore that haunting memory from the past.  In all likelihood his concern was being wasted on a boy whose only ailment was a defective conscience, but Adam couldn’t fully convince himself that that was true, and he knew he wouldn’t enjoy a minute of the day’s activities with that concern constantly nagging at him.  Cursing himself for a fool, he caught a horse car and headed back to check on Joe.

    The car was not crowded, but Adam’s anxious heart would not permit him to relax.  Though there were open seats, he stood, hanging onto an upright pole, willing the horses to move faster and wishing he had strong-limbed Sport here in Philadelphia, so he could reach Joe sooner.  Never had a half hour passed so slowly, and when the streetcar finally reached the corner of Eighth and Chestnut, Adam sprang from it and raced down the street.  Dashing through the lobby of the Washington Hotel, he took the stairs two at a time.  An elevator might be a modern convenience, but like the horse car, it simply moved too slowly for a man in urgent need of speed.

    The doorknob to the suite turned easily in his hand, for the door was unlocked, just as he’d left it.  That might indicate that Joe was still in the room, though on second thought, Adam realized that since he had confiscated Joe’s key after the Shantyville incident, the boy would have had no way to lock the room.  Forcing his fear under control, Adam quietly approached his brother’s bedroom and looked through the doorway.  His jaw hardened as he saw the empty bed.  So he’d been right the first time.  Joe had obviously taken off as soon as he thought the coast was clear.  That settled it.  The brat was going home on the first train west, along with a scathing letter to their father that should earn him restriction to the ranch until he turned twenty-one!

    Behind him, Adam heard the door creak open, and he spun around, shouting, “Where have you”—the accusatory question died on his lips as he saw his brother slumped against the doorway, barefoot and still dressed in his nightshirt, though now its front placket was stained with bile.  One glance at Joe’s ashen face confirmed Adam’s worst fears, and he rushed to his brother’s side.  “You really are sick.”

    Joe still had enough energy to glare at his older brother and to push him away with the hand that moments before had been grasping his aching side.  “I told you that!”

    Adam swung his arm supportively behind Joe’s back and pulled him close to his side.  “I know, I know,” he soothed.  “Let’s get you into bed, little buddy.”

    Responding to the gentle tone, Joe collapsed in his brother’s arms, and a single tear trickled down his cheek.  “I-I really feel bad, Adam—honest.”

    Adam stroked the sweat-damp curls against his shoulder.  “I know, Joe.  Brother was wrong not to believe you.  Into bed now, come on.”  He helped Joe across the parlor and into the next room, easing him down to the side of the bed.  Having noticed that his brother’s nightshirt was clammy, as well as tainted with the putrid remains of last night’s supper, Adam went at once to the bureau across the room and took a fresh one from the top drawer.  “Let’s get you more comfortable,” he said as he unbuttoned the garment Joe was wearing.  Gathering up the tail, he pulled the nightshirt over Joe’s head and tossed it aside so he could get the fresh one on more quickly.  “There you go,” he said as he lifted Joe’s legs and slid his head onto the pillow.

    Little Joe immediately curled into a ball, drawing up his knees with a moan as Adam drew the covers over him.

    Adam squatted down at Joe’s head and laid his hand on the boy’s forehead.  There was a fever, although Adam was relieved to find that it wasn’t too high.  A good sign, perhaps.  Luke’s body had raged with fever, toward the end at least.  “Have you vomited more than once?” he queried.

    Joe nodded briefly.  “Twice—once just after you left and—and just now.  Shouldn’t have tried to make it down the hall.  M-missed the commode this time, made an awful mess in the floor.  Tried to clean it up, but just retched up more.”

    “Don’t worry about it.  I’ll see that it’s tended to.”  Adam laid his hand on Joe’s chest and felt his racing heartbeat.  “Try to relax.”  He licked his lips.  “Joe, has your stomach been hurting ever since that man slugged you yesterday?”  Though he knew he was being ridiculous, he couldn’t help hoping for a simpler explanation for Joe’s condition than the one that kept pounding inside his head.  Not that internal injury was a trivial matter, either, but to Adam, anything was preferable to the haunting horror of perityphlitis.

    Weakly, Joe shook his head.  “Before.”

    It was the answer Adam had both expected and dreaded.  “Before?”

    “It wasn’t the fight, Adam; I was hurting before.”

    “Oh, Joe,” Adam sighed.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

    “I dunno.  Thought it would go away, I guess,” Joe murmured, “or, maybe, that it was from eatin’ too much of the wrong things, like you were always sayin’.”

    Adam groaned, anguished by the thought that his petty complaints had kept Joe from confiding in him.

    “It hurts bad, Adam.”  Joe drew his knees tight to his chest, as if to make a smaller target for the pain.

    Noticing, Adam stood up and reached under the covers to gently straighten his brother’s limbs.  “That won’t help, buddy.”  He sat beside Joe, taking his hand.  “Brother’s here now, and I’m going to get this taken care of, so you just relax.”

    The trusting smile with which Joe responded communicated absolute confidence that big brother Adam could take care of anything.  While Adam was warmed by his brother’s faith, that smile wrenched his heart, for if this illness were what he feared, it might well lie beyond his power—or that of anyone else—to arrest.  Luke’s doctor, a medical professor at Yale, had been able to do little for him; in fact, the hot fomentations and turpentine enemas had seemed to accentuate, rather than alleviate, the young man’s suffering, and draining the abscess late in the illness had been followed within excruciating hours by death.  Adam could only hope that medical science had made some advance in the last twelve years, but the hope was a feeble one.  “I’m going downstairs for a few minutes, Joe, to send for a doctor.”

    “Aw, no, Adam,” Joe whined.  “It’s just a bellyache.  Some bicarbonate, maybe, like you said before?”

    Not wanting to alarm his younger brother with his own fear, Adam simply squeezed Joe’s hand.  “Let’s just make sure, shall we?”

    Joe pouted petulantly.  “I don’t want a doctor.”

    Adam smiled wryly.  “Now you sound like my little brother.”

    Joe made a feeble attempt to smile persuasively.  “Please?  You’re as good as any doctor.”

    Adam shook his head firmly.  “I’m flattered, but it’s not going to get you what you’re after.”  With a final squeeze of his brother’s hand, he stood.  “I’ll be right back.”  He pointed his index finger authoritatively at Joe’s chest.  “You stay put.”

    As Adam turned to leave, Joe rose up on his elbows, calling after him, but when Adam merely ignored him and kept going, Joe flopped back onto the pillow, resigned to his fate.

    When Adam returned only minutes later, he heard his brother groaning, although the sound ceased as soon as Joe realized his brother was back.  “Don’t do that,” Adam chided gently as he reentered the bedroom.

    “What?”  Joe looked back blankly.

    “Don’t be brave for my sake.  I know you’re in pain, Joe.”  And it hurts me to see you trying to hide it.

    Joe bit his trembling lip and turned away, still unwilling to demonstrate weakness before his older brother, who never did.  Through years of observation, Joe had come to believe that a real man met adversity with his brother’s calm stoicism, but it was a standard he found virtually impossible to live up to, given his emotional nature.

    Knowing how Joe normally responded to touch, Adam rubbed circles on the boy’s shoulder with his thumb, as he’d often seen his father do.  “The doctor will be here soon,” he assured his brother.

    “Great,” Joe muttered with obvious displeasure.

    Adam brushed his hand across Joe’s forehead.  Good.  Though climbing, the fever still didn’t seem dangerously high.  Nonetheless, Adam dampened a clean cloth in water from Joe’s pitcher and began to wipe his brother’s face and neck.  He knew the rhythmic motion was more busy work for him than a benefit to Joe, but he had to do something to keep the pictures of another suffering boy from surfacing in his brain.  Repeating the same ministrations he’d performed for Luke, though, only kept the memories fresh in his mind.

    “Adam, I-I think I’m gonna be sick again.”  All attempt to act strong abandoned, Joe whimpered out the words.

    With a nod Adam reached for the washbasin and helped Joe sit up and lean over it.  After retching several times Joe raised his head and laid it back against his brother’s supporting arm.  Adam set the basin aside and reached for a cloth to wipe Joe’s chin.

    Joe curled his fingers around Adam’s wrist.  “Sorry,” he said.

    “Hush,” Adam ordered softly.  “Don’t talk nonsense.”  He gave Joe a sip of water to rinse his mouth of the vile taste and eased him down onto the pillow again.

    Only twenty minutes after sending for help, Adam heard a rap at the door.  As he walked to answer it, he reflected on how much more quickly medical help could be obtained here in the East.  Pennsylvania Hospital, to which he’d sent the summons, was just three blocks away, but even so, Adam was surprised by so rapid a response.  Sometimes prompt attention made all the difference in the world, and Adam could only pray that would be true in his brother’s case.

    Opening the door revealed a man around Adam’s age with the distinguished air of a confident professional.  “Mr. Cartwright?” the dark-haired, mustachioed young man asked.  “I am Dr. Marcus Whittaker, a resident at Pennsylvania Hospital.  I received a message that you were in need of a physician.”

    Adam nodded and motioned the doctor in.  “For my brother Joseph,” he explained.  “He’s been experiencing pain and nausea since yesterday and has vomited three times this morning.  The pain seems to be centered in his lower right abdomen and has been increasing markedly.”

    Dr. Whittaker cocked his head and gazed with respect at the man who had given such a clear and concise description of the patient’s symptoms.  Obviously, this was a man of breeding and intellect, not like the riffraff the doctor frequently encountered in the charity wards.  “May I see the patient now?” he requested courteously.

    “Yes, of course.  This way.”  Adam led him into the bedroom.  Seeing Joe scowl at the stranger, Adam stepped quickly to his brother’s side.  “Joe, this is Dr. Marcus Whittaker.  I want you to give him your complete cooperation.”  He looked up to smile apologetically at the young doctor.  “He might most generously be described as a reluctant patient.”

    “I’m sure he’ll give me no difficulty,” Dr. Whittaker said briskly as he removed a thermometer from his bag and popped it into Joe’s mouth.

    Adam arched an eyebrow, wondering if this doctor’s no-nonsense, professional approach might actually be more effective on his recalcitrant brother than Paul Martin’s soothing strategies.  He took a position at Joe’s head on the opposite side of the bed, though, in case his brother displayed his usual fractious attitude toward the medical profession.

    Mouth closed around the thermometer, Joe cast piteous eyes on his brother as the doctor raised his nightshirt and pulled the covers down, stopping just short of exposing his manhood.  Adam averted his eyes, knowing how modest the normally cocky kid could get at times like this.

    After noting the flatness of the abdomen, Dr. Whittaker listened to the bowel sounds through his stethoscope.  “Hyperactive,” he murmured to himself.

    Removing the thermometer from Joe’s mouth, he gazed at the measurement and nodded, as though the instrument had registered what he expected.

    “How high is his fever?” Adam asked, moistening his lips.

    The doctor again reminded himself that he was dealing with a knowledgeable man and answered the question he might have skirted with a less worthy inquirer.  “One hundred and one.  Not particularly significant.”

    Adam took a breath, letting that piece of information and the casual way in which it was delivered restore a measure of hope.

    Dr. Whittaker, in the meantime, had turned his attention back to Joe’s abdomen, which he began to tap with his fingertips.

    Biting his lower lip, Little Joe reached down to push the doctor’s hands away.

    The doctor merely placed the intruding appendages flat on the mattress.  “Keep your hands at your side, please,” he said and immediately returned to his percussion.

    Adam sat down on the bed, resting his right hand over Joe’s left one and urging him to let the doctor complete his examination.

    “It hurts,” Joe whispered, his eyes on Adam.

    “I know it does, young man,” the doctor responded, “and I’ll finish as quickly as I can, but I will need to palpitate your abdomen to determine its internal state.”

    Joe groaned, whether in actual or anticipated pain Adam could not tell, but there was no mistaking the entreaty in those expressive emerald eyes.  Joe was begging his brother to stop this torture, but though the pleading eyes pierced him straight through, Adam knew he couldn’t intervene.  He just tightened his grip on Joe’s hand and told him it wouldn’t be much longer.

    In inadvertent fulfillment of that promise, Dr. Whittaker soon stopped the probing pushes on Joe’s belly and without comment put his instruments back in his bag.  “Could I see you in the next room, Mr. Cartwright?” he asked rhetorically as he headed for the door.

    Adam stood to follow him, but Joe refused to release his hand.  “Joe, I’ll be right back,” Adam assured his brother as he pried loose the clinging fingers.  He went into the parlor of the suite, quietly closing the bedroom door behind him.  If the news were as bad as he feared, he didn’t want Joe to overhear what the doctor had to say.

    Dr. Whittaker turned to face Adam.  “How old is your brother, Mr. Cartwright?”

    “Nineteen, barely,” Adam replied.

    The doctor’s thick brows drew together in consideration.  “And his parents?  Not traveling with you, I take it.”

    “His mother is deceased; our father is back home—in Nevada.”

    The doctor’s brow furrowed still more.  “Nevada—too far.”

    “I assure you, doctor, that I have my father’s full authority regarding this boy,” Adam explained quickly, “and I will be responsible for any necessary decisions in my father’s absence.  Now, please, tell me how he is.”

    Dr. Whittaker nodded gravely.  “You brother is a very sick young man, Mr. Cartwright.”

    Adam’s mouth was set in a grim line.  “I know.  It’s perityphlitis, isn’t it?”

    The doctor looked up in surprise at the technical term.  “You’ve had medical training?”

    “No,” Adam denied with a shake of his head.  He briefly described the illness, treatment and eventual death of his college friend.  “There was nothing the doctor could do then.  Has that changed?”  A lump rose in his throat and he swallowed it down.

    The hospital resident scrutinized Adam’s face, as though trying to assess the man’s likely reaction to what he wished to say.  “The standard medical treatment for what you knew as perityphlitis has changed little in the last twenty years,” Dr. Whittaker began cautiously.  “A professor of mine at Harvard, Dr. Reginald Fitz, has suggested that a more accurate term for the illness might be appendicitis, as the appendix is the infected organ.”

    “I don’t care what you call it!” Adam growled through gritted teeth.  “Can you help him?”

    The doctor took a long, slow breath, again appearing to analyze the character of the man with whom he was dealing.  “Dr. Fitz has also suggested a treatment, which I believe has merit, but I know of no documented case in which it has been tested.”

    Adam leaped at the strand of hope.  “What treatment?”

    “Early surgical intervention,” Dr. Whittaker said with crisp professional certainty.

    Shock registered on Adam’s normally guarded countenance.  “Surgery?  In the abdomen?”  He had clearly not expected so radical a suggestion.  To open up an abdomen, for any purpose, was virtually unheard of.

    “For removal of the appendix,” the resident replied, acting as though unaware of the response his recommendation had elicited.  “Dr. Fitz’s theory is that if the inflamed appendix is removed prior to perforation, the patient has a far greater chance of survival.”

    “But it’s never been done?” Adam asked, his concern revealed in the slow deliberation of his words.  “You want to experiment on my brother?”

    Dr. Whittaker drew himself rigidly upright.  “I want to offer your brother what I believe is his best chance for recovery, sir!  I understand that abdominal surgery is generally considered a last resort, but I honestly believe that early intervention will one day be accepted as the treatment of choice, and Dr. Thomas Morton, the attending physician under whose supervision I work, is inclined to agree.”  He took another long breath and continued.  “I will also be candid enough to admit to you that I have been hoping for a test case, Mr. Cartwright, but I do not countenance haphazard experimentation on patients, as you suggest, nor would I take unwarranted risks with a young man’s life.  As I said, the operation has not, to my knowledge, been performed successfully and is, in that sense, experimental.  However, in theory, it should be quite a simple procedure.”

    “In theory,” Adam muttered gruffly.

    The resident clasped his hands behind his back.  “I will, of course, understand if you prefer that I follow the established treatment in your brother’s case.  There have been instances, admittedly rare, in which the inflammation simply subsided upon rest with the application of ice packs.  Beyond that, standard medical treatment calls for waiting for an abscess to form and then draining it surgically.”

    Adam paled visibly.  He’d seen that treatment before, back in New Haven, and he shook his head briskly to jar loose the recurring memories of his friend’s anguished screams.  “That’s a death warrant,” he said bluntly.

    Dr. Whittaker nodded gravely.  “In my view, it is.  I believe, without this operation, your young brother will die.  I’m offering him a chance for life, Mr. Cartwright."

    Adam pinched the bridge of his nose.  “But you’ve never performed this operation—not even once?”

    “Not even once,” the doctor admitted soberly, “and while it is likely that Dr. Morton would perform the actual surgery on your brother, I do know my anatomy, Mr. Cartwright, and should I personally be granted that privilege, I do know how to perform this operation.”

    “In theory,” Adam added grimly.

    “In theory,” the resident replied honestly.

    Adam stared at the closed bedroom door for long, painful minutes, overwhelmed by the gravity of the decision he must make.  Little Joe’s life was in his hands.  Make the wrong decision, and the boy would die; make the right decision too late, and the result would be the same.  Whichever course he took, there was no guarantee of the outcome and no time for lengthy internal debate.  The decision had to be made and made now.  Though Adam prided himself on logical thinking, in the end he made it the way his younger brother would have, by sheer gut instinct, the deciding factor that lingering memory of Luke’s agonizing death.  Squaring his shoulders, Adam faced the young doctor.  “You have my permission.  Operate.”

    Though the doctor had waited patiently, making no further attempt to influence the decision, he looked pleased, almost eager, when he heard permission granted for the historic operation, an expression that caused Adam some misgiving.  He had no opportunity to give that misgiving consideration, however, for the doctor’s next words required his full attention.

    “I know that was a difficult decision,” Dr. Whittaker said, “but I believe you’ve made the correct one.  Now, the first step will be to have your brother admitted to the hospital.  The board will have to rule on his acceptance, of course.  I realize that should be strictly a medical decision, but, unfortunately, that authority still rests with the civilian board of managers.”  He paused briefly.  “Forgive me, but I must ask whether your brother will be entering as a free or paying patient.”

    Adam regarded him with a ruthless glare.  “I’ll pay your fee, of course,” he said sharply.

    The hospital resident flushed and hastened to explain.  “It isn’t my fee that is in question here, sir, I assure you.  While free beds are offered to those who cannot pay, the board of managers tends to look at such cases with a stricter eye.  It would facilitate matters if your brother could enter as a paying patient.  The charge for board is three dollars a day.  As that’s no more than the charges at this hotel, I trust it’s not a problem.  If it is, we could accept partial payment of one dollar per day, instead, which would accord him some status above the charity cases.”

    “No, that sum is not a problem,” Adam assured the doctor quickly.  “Whatever he needs, he can have.”

    “Excellent!” Dr. Whittaker declared.  “I’m sure there’ll be no difficulty with his admission, in that case.”  He hesitated, looking toward the bedroom.  “Would you like me to explain the procedure to the young man?”

    Easily visualizing Joe’s response, especially if the verdict came from a stranger, Adam brusquely waved the offer aside.  “No, that’s my job.”

    The doctor looked relieved, but he maintained his professional bearing as he said, “Then I’ll begin mine by arranging for transport to Pennsylvania Hospital by ambulance.”

    Adam shook the doctor’s hand and saw him out, and then turned to stare at the closed door to Joe’s room as he gathered courage for the struggle ahead.  “Once more unto the breach,” he muttered and moved toward the door.

    As he entered, he saw his younger brother straining to see into the parlor behind him.  “Is he gone?” Joe asked hoarsely.

    “Yes, he’s gone,” Adam answered softly.

    “Good.”  Relieved, Joe relaxed into the pillow.  “I didn’t like him, Adam.”

    “Like or dislike doesn’t enter into it,” Adam said, striving to maintain a cool, collected countenance so that Joe would remain calm.  “He’s a competent doctor, and I believe he’s given sound advice regarding your illness.”

    “Bet it’ll taste awful,” Joe grunted.

    Adam exhaled gustily.  This was going to go down harder than the bitterest potion, and there was no sense in putting it off.  “There won’t be any medicine, Joe,” he began, taking the boy’s hand and massaging the palm with his thumb.  “The doctor feels you need an operation, and I’ve given my permission.  He’s arranging for you to be transported to the hospital, and it shouldn’t be long before the ambulance arrives.”

    Joe’s eyes grew large as the ceramic saucers they’d seen at the Centennial Exposition.  “Adam, no,” he gasped.  “You can’t let that man cut me open.  You can’t!”

    Adam tightened his grip on his brother’s hand.  “I know it’s a frightening prospect, Joe, but this is what we have to do.  There isn’t any other way, boy.”

    “There has to be!”

    “No.”

    Joe began to thrash from side to side, babbling out protests that he wasn’t that sick and pleas to be left alone.

    Adam grabbed his brother’s head between his strong hands and forcibly held it still.  “Joe, stop it,” he ordered, his voice severe in its urgency, for he was afraid the boy would injure himself.  “You have to have the operation.  That’s all there is to it, and you’re only hurting yourself trying to fight it.  Now be still!”

    Tears of defeat brimmed in the emerald eyes.  “Then take me home,” Joe implored.  “If someone’s gonna cut into me, I want Doc Martin to do it.”

    Adam’s calm, controlled mask almost cracked.  Even if Dr. Martin had been competent to perform the untried operation, a week’s delay would inevitably mean death.  However, Adam could scarcely share that bit of logic with his panicky little brother!  “Dr. Martin is a good country doctor,” he argued alternatively, “but good as he is, he doesn’t have access to the latest medical developments and treatments.  Pennsylvania Hospital is probably the leading institution in the country, Joe; there you’ll receive the best medical care available in America.”

    The tears spilled over, running down Joe’s cheeks.  “I’ve heard about hospitals,” he sobbed.  “They’re places to die.  Don’t send me there, Adam—please!”

    It was a commonly held belief, based on what had been true in the past, a heritage the hospitals of America would in time live down, but that would take years.  Adam had only minutes, and he’d dealt with his little brother often enough to know that Joe wouldn’t respond to reason when he was in the grip of terror.  That left but one path to follow, though Adam took it reluctantly.  He stood straight, folded his arms and uttered the pronouncement in a firm voice.  “Pa placed you in my charge, and you agreed to accept my authority.  Whether you like it or not, little brother, I am holding you to that bargain.”

    Joe bolted upright.  “You think paying my train fare gives you the right to decide whether I live or die?” he shrieked.  “Then send me home!  I’ll pay you back.  I want my pa!”

    The words were a knife to Adam’s heart, but he had no time to spare for his own injury.  As he saw Joe throw back the covers, he grabbed the boy by both shoulders and forced him down to the mattress.  “Lie still!” he commanded.  “I am your pa as long as we’re back here, and you will do as you’re told.”

    A loud knock on the door to the suite caught Adam’s attention.  Giving Joe’s shoulders one more emphatic push, Adam released him.  “Don’t you move,” he ordered and headed into the next room.

    Joe, of course, saw his brother’s departure as the perfect opportunity to take matters into his own hands.  Jerking back the covers, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and lurched to his feet.  With a cry of pain, he clutched his side and staggered toward the door, only to discover his brother and two burly strangers blocking his way.

    “Joe!” Adam cried, grabbing his brother as he stumbled forward.  “No, boy!”

    Joe tried to break his brother’s hold, but he was too weak, especially when the stretcher-bearers from the hospital joined forces with Adam.  Though every movement was agony, Joe kicked and fought as the three men lifted him bodily and laid him on the stretcher.

    “Sure this one ain’t bound for the lunatic asylum?” one of the stretcher-bearers asked the other.

    “I’m sure,” Adam snapped.  “He’s just frightened.”

    “All the same, I think we’d best put the straps on him, mister,” the other man said.  “He’s likely to do himself harm.”

    “Joe, settle down,” Adam ordered, “or these men will have to put you in restraints.”

    Eyes glinting with animosity, Joe continued to struggle, so Adam reluctantly gestured for the hospital attendants to apply the restraints.  “I’m sorry, buddy,” Adam said.  “I don’t like doing this, but you leave me no choice.”

    Joe fought to free himself from the confining straps until he collapsed, exhausted, but as he was carried from the room to the waiting ambulance, he continued to plead for release.  “Send me home,” he begged.  “Doc Martin can take better care of me than any of these eastern quacks.”

    One hand resting on Joe’s chest, Adam walked beside the stretcher as the party moved through the hotel lobby.  The clerk behind the counter, as well as the guests registering, turned to stare, but other than a proud lift of his chin, Adam paid them no heed.  Joe was behaving badly, of course, inexcusably so had he been well, but knowing the pain and fear that motivated the egregious conduct, Adam excused it.  When he tried to hush Joe’s frantic protests, it was for the boy’s sake, not because of any personal embarrassment.

    Climbing into the back of the ambulance, Adam sat beside his brother, still trying to calm him.  “Everything will be all right, Joe,” he soothed, all the time praying that the words would prove true.

    As the ambulance began to move down the street, Joe turned his face away from his brother.  “I hate you,” he hissed.

    Blinking back the moisture in his eyes, Adam brushed a stray curl from his brother’s forehead.  “Okay,” he said after insuring that he could speak without hurt tinting his tone, “you be as mad as you want, little brother.  I can handle it.”  What I can’t handle is losing you.  He continued to stroke Joe’s tangled locks, but Joe made no response; in fact, he would not so much as look at his brother.

    The drive was a brief one, and the ambulance soon pulled to a stop outside the high brick wall that enclosed Pennsylvania Hospital on three sides.  Dr. Whittaker met them at the arched gateway.  “I apologize for the delay, Mr. Cartwright,” he said as soon as Adam had jumped from the wagon’s back.  “The board will be meeting momentarily to decide on your brother’s admittance.  In the meantime, you may wait in our reception ward.”

    The reception ward turned out to be merely an empty room in the old gatekeeper’s lodge, to the side of the entrance, where Joe’s stretcher was carried and set down on a bare cot.  “The surgeons on staff will also be consulting, as is required in any emergency case,” the doctor continued to explain as he and Adam followed the stretcher-bearers into the small stone room.

    Adam gazed at the resident with exasperation.  “How long will that take?” he demanded.

    “I’ll do all I can to expedite matters, Mr. Cartwright.  As I indicated, we’re all aware that this is an emergency situation.”  At Adam’s nod, he left and made his way toward the main building.

    Adam knelt beside Joe’s stretcher and tried to reassure him that he would soon receive the help he needed and relief from the sharpening pain.

    “Can’t we go back to the hotel?” Joe beseeched, though with little hope of success.  “I don’t like it here, Adam.”

    Adam looked at the unadorned gray walls and had no problem seeing their unbroken drabness through the eyes of a sick person.  “I don’t blame you, buddy, but it’ll be better once you’re settled in your own bed.”

    Joe bit his lip and turned away, refusing to respond to anything else Adam said.

    After a lengthy wait, Dr. Whittaker returned to request that Adam come with him to answer some questions from the board.

    “What now?” Adam demanded with irritation.  “How long does this boy have to wait before something is done?”

    “I’m sure it won’t be much longer,” the resident soothed.  “As this is a new procedure, the board wants reassurance that you understand and accept the risks.”

    “Adam?” Joe interrupted plaintively.

    Adam touched his brother’s shoulder.  “It’s all right, Joe.  Let me handle this.”  He turned back to the doctor.  “I’ve already told you that I understand that.”

    The doctor nodded.  “Yes, but I need you to reaffirm that to the board, and there are a couple of routine matters they wish to clarify.”

    Adam blew out his vexation in a blast of air.  “Oh, all right, but I don’t like leaving him alone.”

    “It will be brief, I promise,” Dr. Whittaker assured him, “and he’s in restraints.  He can’t go anywhere or do himself any harm.”  Seeing that his words had done nothing to relieve Adam’s concern, he added, “The gatekeeper is nearby; he can look in on the boy.”

    Adam continued to stare in disbelief of the doctor’s insensitivity.  Then, seeing no alternative if he wanted Joe admitted to the hospital, he turned back to his brother.  “I’ll be back soon, Joe.  Try to rest easy—and sing out for the gatekeeper if you need anything.”

    Joe sent a frantic look around the gray walls.  “Don’t leave me here, Adam.  Please!”

    Adam gave the chestnut curls a comforting pat.  “I’ll be right back.  Just lie quiet for me, boy, all right?”

    Unable to move the rest of his body, Little Joe threw his head violently from side to side.

    With a parting stroke, Adam left, heart torn apart by his brother’s suffering and the realization that he had compounded it by forcing Joe to submit to medical treatment against his will.  His conscience prickled at the thought of leaving his brother alone, helpless in restraints, but he felt he had no choice.  Without those confining straps, Joe would be out of that cot and staggering down Eighth Street the minute he was left alone.

    At the side of Dr. Whittaker, Adam walked toward the impressive, three-story central building, flanked by wings on the east and west.  Climbing the white steps, he entered under an arched transom and walked along a narrow tiled corridor to an austere room.  Dark drapes hung at the windows and shelves of books lined two walls of the room.  In the center was a polished walnut table, surrounded by eight men.  “Gentlemen, I understand you have some questions for me,” Adam stated, permitting no time for introductions.  “Please state them at once.  My brother is very ill, and I would like to expedite his admission to the hospital.”

    A distinguished-looking man rose and introduced himself as Dr. Thomas Morton.  “The board’s main concern, Mr. Cartwright, is the legal liability of this institution.  You understand that the operation I would be performing is untried?”

    Adam nodded brusquely, irritated by the delay.  “Yes, Dr. Whittaker has fully acquainted me with the risks, and I accept them.  I will hold neither you nor this hospital responsible should the result be less favorable than he predicts.  Now, can we proceed?”

    Another man spoke up.  “You will sign a statement to that effect?”

    “Yes,” Adam hissed through gritted teeth.

    Dr. Morton turned toward the others seated at the table.  “I see no medical reason for refusing this patient admittance to Pennsylvania Hospital, gentlemen.”

    “There are a couple of other matters,” another board member inserted.  “Obviously, you and your brother are gentlemen of means, Mr. Cartwright.  While you would most likely prefer a private room, we have none available at present, due to the large crowds in our city for the Centennial.  Your brother would have to be admitted to the general surgical ward, where he will be subjected to contact with patients of a lower class.”

    For a moment Adam could only stare in amazement.  “I don’t care who sleeps in the bed next to him,” he sputtered when he found his voice.  “Just give him the help he needs—as soon as possible, if that’s not asking too much!”

    Several of the men behind the table appeared offended, but Dr. Whittaker stepped in quickly to apologize for the worried brother’s seemingly belligerent attitude, reminding the board that this man and his brother came from the far West and were not accustomed to civilized separation of the classes.

    Adam felt like exploding at that insulting insinuation, but for Joe’s sake he restrained himself.

    “Only one further point, then,” the board member hurried to state.  “You realize that this case will have great interest for the medical staff and their students.  While we try to respect the privacy of our paying patients, it is standard practice for examinations of our charity patients to be open to such observers, and in view of the unique nature of this surgery—”

    Adam interrupted, striving to curtail the seemingly endless discussion.  “Fine, examine him all you like—just do something now!”

    With another shake of his head at the uncouth conduct of westerners, the board member who had made the request turned to the others at the table.  “With that understanding I believe we can accept this young man for admission into the hospital.  Obviously, he poses no threat of pauperism.”

    Another man in a black frock coat said, “I think we can excuse Mr. Cartwright now, while we deliberate our decision.”

    Dr. Whittaker immediately escorted a livid Adam Cartwright from the room.  “Deliberate!” Adam fumed as soon as the resident had closed the door behind them.  “How long is this going to take?”

    “I’m sure they’ll decide quickly in your brother’s favor,” the young doctor stated.

    “And what was that about pauperism?” Adam ranted.

    Dr. Whittaker shrugged.  “Unfortunately, it is a concern when we accept charity patients.  The board must determine whether a patient is being admitted for a medical need of fixed duration or whether he will become a financial drain on the hospital’s limited resources.  In the case of a paying patient, that concern is negated, which is why I said your brother’s admission would be facilitated if you could pay.”

    “Money talks,” Adam muttered bitterly.

    “It does,” the resident admitted.  “The day may come when appropriate medical treatment is available equally to all, but that day is not yet here, Mr. Cartwright.  You and your brother are quite fortunate.”

    Adam nodded, grateful, as never before, for his father’s foresight and hard work, which had afforded the opportunity for Joe to get the help he needed.  Concerned that his brother had been alone too long, Adam excused himself and hurried back to the reception ward.

    Joe at first looked relieved to see his brother; then the mask of offense dropped back over his face.  “You said you’d be right back,” he chided pettishly.

    The waiting had seemed interminable to Adam, too, and he could only imagine how time must have crawled for his brother, left alone within the uninviting gray walls. “I’m sorry,” he said, as he unfastened the straps that restrained his brother, feeling them unnecessary now that he was here to protect Joe from his own foolishness.  “It shouldn’t be much longer, buddy.”

    Joe refused to even make eye contact with his older brother, turning his back and curling up into a protective ball as soon as his body was free to move.

    Adam rubbed his brother’s back with a solicitous hand.  “Is the pain worse?”

    “What do you care?” Joe muttered.  “Go away.”

    Closing his eyes, Adam shook his head, fearful that Joe would never forgive him for the actions he’d felt compelled to take.  He said nothing, however, concerned that any explanation he offered would only upset Joe more, and since Joe refused to say anything else, the two brothers filled the gloomy room with heavy silence.

    Hearing footsteps, Adam looked up and was surprised, after the history of delays, to see Dr. Whittaker return so quickly.  “The board has agreed to admit your brother, Mr. Cartwright,” the beaming resident announced.  “We’ll be taking him into the main hospital as soon as the bed carriage arrives.”

    “Bed carriage?” Adam queried.  “Can’t we just carry him in?”  The thought of even a minute’s more delay was unbearable to the anxious older brother.

    “Much better this way,” the doctor advised.  “Invented by Dr. Morton himself,” he added, obviously intending to impress the grim-faced Mr. Cartwright with the stature of the man who would be performing surgery on his brother.  The man from Nevada shrugged aside the information as unimportant, and the hospital resident correctly read the gesture as concern over another delay.  “Ah, here it is,” he announced with relief a few minutes later, “so we’ll soon have your brother settled in.”

    With his engineering expertise, Adam at once appreciated the efficiency of the four-wheeled conveyance being rolled into the reception ward.  Built low, it slid under Joe’s cot; then an orderly turned the crank at one end, raising the center of the carriage until it lifted the cot from the floor for easy transport from place to place.  It would, indeed, make the trip across the courtyard more comfortable for Joe, so waiting for the bed carriage was one delay Adam didn’t begrudge the hospital staff.

    “This certainly is a convenient way of getting from place to place,” Adam observed as he walked alongside the bed carriage toward the main building.  “This doctor of yours must be quite an intelligent man to invent such a useful device, don’t you think, Joe?”

    The attempt to bolster Joe’s spirits fell flat, for Joe looked as unimpressed as Adam had been when Dr. Whittaker sang his superior’s praises, and rigid with anger, he remained unresponsive to any attempt to communicate.

    As they came to a double staircase in the central hall, the resident paused.  “This is where we separate,” he said.  “You need to sign the admission papers in the office to your right.  Then you can take these stairs up to the third floor, where you’ll find seating outside the surgical amphitheater.  Doctor Morton and I will join you there after the completion of the operation.”  Catching the older brother’s concerned look at the younger, he added, “We’ll take the patient in another entrance after he’s prepared for surgery.  He’s in good hands, Mr. Cartwright.”

    “Yes, of course,” Adam said.  Bending over Joe’s cot, he tried to get the boy to look at him, but again Joe refused.  Though Adam hated parting with bad feelings between them, he saw no alternative.  “I’ll see you later, buddy.”  With a final brush of Joe’s chestnut curls, he let the orderlies roll his brother away and went into the office Dr. Whittaker had indicated.

    Papers signed, he immediately jogged up the stairs.  On the third floor, Adam noticed a throng of people moving down the tiled corridor.  Overhearing snatches of conversation, he realized they were all heading toward the observation level of the surgical amphitheater.  Word spreads fast when the operation is an interesting one, he concluded.  Wanting to be close to Joe, even though he was certain the boy would be unaware—and possibly resentful—of his presence, Adam trailed in with the rest of the crowd and took a chair near the aisle about halfway down the tier of seats.

    The waiting began again, and again it seemed interminable.  Adam passed the time by studying the structure of the amphitheater.  The room was octagonal in shape, surrounded on all sides by rows of seats rising one above the other for thirty feet or more. Below, Adam saw the bare table on which his younger brother would soon lie.  The amphitheater could hold three hundred spectators, Adam calculated, feeling grateful that not every seat was filled.  As it was, there would be more than enough people watching the operation to give Joe fits, if he saw them.  Hope they put him under the anesthetic before they bring him in here, Adam thought as he glanced around at the people continuing to enter.

    Still the waiting continued, and with time on his hands, Adam couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting to other surgeries he had seen, none of them under such pristine conditions as this metropolitan hospital afforded.  Not that he’d ever gone out of his way to observe such procedures, like some of the curious onlookers here, but sometimes it couldn’t be avoided, at least not without shirking one’s duty.  As a Union officer, Adam had felt it his duty to stand by injured men in his company whenever possible.  He’d seen the doctors in their blood-spattered aprons cutting off limbs right and left, throwing them into piles outside the operating tent, and he’d held men’s hands as they screamed in torment when morphine was in short supply.  There’d been times when he’d left that grisly scene to spill his last meal behind the nearest tree, but never once had one of the men under his command seen anything but calm and steady support in their lieutenant’s face.  A man did his duty, however unsavory, and duty had always been strong in Adam Cartwright, from childhood up.

    But the strength that had stood steadfast while he watched shattered limbs sawed off faltered when Little Joe was wheeled into the amphitheater and doctors Morton and Whittaker each put on one of the white coats hanging on pegs along the back wall.  Not a stranger, not a man he barely knew or even one whose comradeship he’d come to cherish.  This was his baby brother, precious beyond words, and Adam suddenly realized he could not bear to watch a scalpel slice into that cherished flesh.  He grasped the back of the seat in front of him, trying to tame the turmoil churning in his stomach, but he knew instinctively that he would fail if he stayed in that room.  Bolting from his seat, he ran up the stairs to the third floor entrance, disdainful of the titters that rippled around the room. Let the ignorant fools laugh; they’d sing a different tune if it were their loved one lying on that table.  There were sound reasons why doctors preferred to operate outside the view of family members, and although Adam felt as though he were abandoning Little Joe, he knew he would do the boy little good by passing out cold.  He stumbled to a bench beneath a window and slumped into it.

    The jeering laughter died as quickly as it had begun, but the self-recrimination that followed in its wake was unrelenting, as Adam castigated himself for the display of weakness.  Adam Cartwright, always calm in crisis, he mocked his pride.  What if it had been a bullet that struck Joe down, instead of illness, with me the only one available to extract it?  Would I just let him die because I was too squeamish to cut into him?  Adam shook his head, knowing that in that case, duty would take over.  A man did what he had to do in an emergency, but to sit idly by, just watching without being able to help, was more than any man could stand.

    So, maybe he hadn’t really failed Joe, at least not by fleeing the amphitheater.  Other failures, however, rose high as the Sierras in Adam’s newly sensitive eyes.  Just that morning he had composed a lengthy list of Joe’s faults, but it was his own that riddled him, like rapid fire from a Gatling gun, as he sat on the hard bench, waiting to learn whether his little brother would live or die.  He had accused Joe of petty selfishness in snaring that window seat at Mill Station, but he was the selfish one, demanding it throughout the rest of their journey across the country, denying Joe a good view of places he’d never seen.  How did that enhance the boy’s education?  A total stranger had been kinder to his brother in that regard than he.  In fact, Adam flagellated himself, his selfishness had begun even earlier, in the planning stages of the trip east, when he’d ridiculed everything his brother suggested.  Pa had tried to warn him that he was being unfair, but he’d told himself repeatedly that the trip was his, his brother being a mere guest, not a partner with equal rights.

As if that weren’t enough, he’d practically turned Little Joe into his personal body servant on the journey, making him fetch and carry, whether it was the daily newspaper or all their assorted baggage, justifying the dictatorial treatment as partial repayment for the trip.  He’d teased the boy mercilessly, mocking his choice of reading material, for instance, when all Joe was doing was finding some way to occupy his time.  I should have spent those hours enjoying him, not with my nose buried in some engineering journal.  What I wouldn’t give to have even one of those hours back!

    Adam stood and began to pace the hall as he continued the unremitting tally of his own offenses, the worst being the way he’d forced his will on his younger brother here in Philadelphia.  How many times had he reminded Joe that he was paying the bills and, therefore, deserved to have everything his own way, even down to deciding where they’d eat every meal?  What kind of mercenary wretch would wield such autocratic power over his own brother?  And it hadn’t stopped there.  Oh, no, I had to throw his promise to accept my authority in the kid’s face, too.  And don’t forget the threats to send him home in disgrace if he didn’t toe the line.  Small wonder he felt the need to break free.  Even so, it only happened once, and I’ve held it against him ever since.

    Adam paused at a window overlooking the courtyard and rested his forehead against the sun-warmed glass, overwhelmed by the recollections rushing toward him now like the crashing waves of an angry sea.  Oh, Pa, Pa, these are the breakers you warned me about.  There was no pride this time as he reflected on his father’s words, only crushing shame for the bitter accusations he’d thrown in his brother’s face that morning.   Anger and unforgiveness for Joe’s Shantyville escapade and the deception preceding it had blinded him to his brother’s all-too-real illness.  He’d stormed away from that encounter and caught the streetcar in a huff.  That’s when the gale had started to blow, driven by the wind of long-submerged memories, and his ship had hit those breakers of his father’s metaphor, though even Pa, Adam was sure, had never dreamed the waters could grow this choppy.

    He’d caught a car back to the hotel almost immediately, but still the round trip had consumed an hour, an hour he could never buy back at any price.  What if that one hour made the difference?  If these doctors and that Harvard professor—what was his name?  Oh, yes, Fitz—if they were right in believing that it was important to intervene early in cases like Joe’s, could that one hour have been the crucial one that decided his brother’s life or death?  Adam pressed his palms heavily against the windowpane, knowing that if Joe died, he’d be asking that question the rest of his life.  Dear God, spare me that.  No, forget me; spare him.  He’s just a child, too young to—

    Too young to die?  But Adam had seen boys younger fall on the field of battle.  In fact, he realized with a jolt, he himself had been barely older than Joe was now when he had led those “boys” into battle, some of them to their deaths.  They’d all considered themselves men back then, just as Joe did now.

    Adam smiled softly as gentler memories flowed in to replace the tumultuous ones.  That scene in the gentlemen’s washroom of the railcar, when Joe had confronted the burly farmer ribbing his request for a razor, had been priceless.  Memories like that made it hard to think of Little Joe as anything but a child.  He remembered that child rushing from one exhibit to the next at the Centennial, eager to touch and taste all that was new and exciting in life.  Though anxious concern hovered just past the pleasant recollections, Adam almost chuckled as he remembered Joe’s spontaneous suggestion that the four Cartwrights march down the main street of Virginia City, wearing those gaudy suspenders with their names woven in.  Get through this, little buddy, and I promise that you and I, at least, will parade down C Street in suspender splendor, even if the entire population of our fair city lines the way to gawk at us.

    Turning to lean back against the wall, Adam thought of the two days that he and Joe had spent relaxing at the zoo and rowing down the Wissahickon.  Those were the days he cherished, not the ones spent dragging his brother from one educational exhibit to the next: that bright-eyed child gazing with wonder and delight at a tall giraffe or a yellow balloon bobbing against a sky of cloudless blue, the energetic lad who had wanted to scale every overlook, the young man whose child-like laughter had rivaled the twittering of the birds in the trees.

    The thought of that laughter silenced forever brought the breakers crashing back over his soul, and Adam pressed steepled fingers to his lips. Dear God, don’t let me lose that, he prayed.  How will I ever learn to laugh . . . to live . . . if I don’t have him to teach me?  Grant me this one request, and I promise that from this moment on, this trip will belong to him, not me.

    He made his way back to the wooden bench and sat down again, burying his face in his hands.  It seemed like a trite bargain to make in exchange for a boy’s life—spare his life and I’ll show him a good time—but, then, one didn’t bargain with the Almighty, anyway.  All a man could do was present his petition and plead for mercy, and as he waited for the operation to end, Adam Cartwright did exactly that.

    Minute followed harrowing minute, as a restless Adam moved from bench to window to pacing the hall, time after time.  He hadn’t thought to look at his watch when the surgery started, so he had no idea how long Little Joe had been on the operating table, but it seemed like forever.  He was sitting on the bench when the doors to the amphitheater opened and people began streaming out, chattering about how fascinating the procedure had been.  Adam leaped to his feet, fighting his way against the flow, dodging spectators still inside as he careened down the steps to the operating floor.  The doctors were just hanging up their bloodstained coats when Adam vaulted over the rail that separated the observation tiers from the surgical area.  “Where is he?  Where’s my brother?” he demanded, for he had noticed that the operating table was now empty.

    “Mr. Cartwright, I told you we would see you upstairs after the operation,” Dr. Whittaker chided.

    Dr. Morton lifted a hand to silence further comment.  “Your brother’s been moved to a quieter area, where he can be watched until the effects of the anesthetic dissipate.”

    “Then he’s all right,” Adam gasped in relief.

    Dr. Morton smiled.  “He’s in stable condition at present.  Though the appendix was severely inflamed, I was able to remove it before perforation.”

    “He’ll be all right,” Adam babbled.  It seemed to be the only phrase he could say, the only words that mattered in all the world.

    “All indications are good,” Dr. Morton said, “but I must remind you that we are on untried ground.  There are risks involved with any surgery, and while I believe I was able to remove all the infected tissue, we will need to watch him for signs of infection.  Only time will tell us if the operation was a complete success.”

    Adam nodded in understanding.  “May I see him?” he asked.

    “He’s still anesthetized,” the doctor explained again, “but if you wish to wait, you may see him briefly before we settle him in his bed in the surgical ward.”

    “Briefly?”

    “Yes, I’ll see to it that he’s given enough morphine to help him rest soundly through the night, and you may see him tomorrow morning, although that is an exception to our regular visiting hours.”

    Adam’s brow furrowed.  “I don’t understand.  I assumed I’d be staying with him.

    Dr. Morton laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.  “I need to prepare for my next surgery, Mr. Cartwright, but Dr. Whittaker can acquaint you with hospital policy.”  Nodding at the resident who had assisted him during the operation, he added, “Take whatever time you need, doctor, though I might suggest you find a better place to talk with Mr. Cartwright.  This room will be needed again soon.”

    “Yes, sir.”  Dr. Whittaker put one hand behind Adam’s right elbow and gestured toward a door behind him.  “If you’ll come this way, Mr. Cartwright, I’ll answer all your questions.”

    From what Adam had seen of the two doctors, he much preferred to discuss his brother’s case with the senior physician, but he realized the chief surgeon of a large hospital would have other duties and so went along willingly with the resident.  They had gone no further that the hall outside the amphitheater, however, before he demanded an explanation.  “Why can’t I stay with my brother?”

    Dr. Whittaker took a step back and then regained his composure.  “Because your brother is in the public ward, sir.  Had we been able to secure a private room, you could have had as much access to him as you wished, but on the ward visiting hours are restricted—two hours on Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons.”  At Adam’s horrified look, he added, “It’s really for his benefit, as well as avoiding interference with necessary work on the ward.”

    “Are you seriously suggesting that I leave this boy here alone until next Monday?”  Adam protested.  “That is completely unacceptable, sir!”

    The resident squared his shoulders.  “Those are the rules, Mr. Cartwright.”

    Sensing that further display of outrage would gain him nothing, Adam resolved to reason with the man.  “No, you don’t understand.  He’s never been in a hospital before.  He’s used to having one of his family sit with him through any illness or injury, and he will not respond well to being alone among strangers.”

    The doctor stroked his mustache thoughtfully.  “Well, as he is a paying patient, we might make some concession, I suppose.  Dr. Morton did indicate that you might see your brother tomorrow morning, and I’m certain he would authorize more access than the rules permit.  It will require a special order from the managers, but I will propose to them that you be allowed to visit your brother for one hour each morning and two each afternoon.

    Disappointment washed across Adam’s face.  “Only three hours a day?  Can’t you see your way clear to—”

    “Mr. Cartwright,” Dr. Whittaker interrupted sharply, “as I said, it’s in his best interest—and yours, as well—that these rules be kept.  When he is dismissed from the hospital, you will, no doubt, be solely responsible for his care, as you are far from home and anyone who might assist you.  How can you possibly do that effectively if you are exhausted from sitting by his bedside night and day?”

    I’d manage, Adam thought, though he sensed that statement would carry little weight with the rule-conscious resident.  “I understand what you’re saying,” he replied, choosing his words carefully, “but I still think that this particular patient would do better if I were with him.”

    The doctor’s gaze narrowed.  “I did not observe much in the way of harmony between the two of you at the hotel nor since arriving at the hospital.  Can you really be certain your presence will not serve only to agitate the lad?”

    Caught off guard, Adam had no answer.  Joe’s last words to him had been an injunction to “go away,” and that bitter anger might still stand as a barrier between them.  Perhaps the doctor was right in believing that his staying with Joe might only retard his recovery.  Adam nodded in defeated acquiescence.

    “Fine,” the resident concluded crisply.  “You may see your brother between eleven and noon tomorrow and again from two to four, unless the board interposes objections, which I do not anticipate.  Now, if you’ll come with me, I’ll show you where you can wait until your brother awakens from the anesthetic.”

    Another bench in another hall, this one an inner corridor without windows, but the hour Adam spent there seemed short as he devoted the first portion of it to prayers of thanksgiving and the remaining time to planning his next steps.  Obviously, Pa would need to be informed.  There really hadn’t been time before now, and that was just as well, since he could now send word of the success of the surgery.  Then, once that was taken care of, he would have dinner.  Though he hadn’t eaten breakfast, Adam had only become aware of his hunger here in this hall.  Then what?  A trip to the bookstore, perhaps, for since he wouldn’t be allowed to keep Joe company, he would have many empty hours to fill in that lonely room at the Washington Hotel.

    Adam looked up as he heard the sound of wheels rolling down the corridor and a broad smile hit his face as he recognized the figure in the bed.  Standing, he hurried forward, though the raised hand of Dr. Whittaker stopped him short.  “He’s still groggy,” the resident said, “so don’t be surprised if he doesn’t recognize you.”

    Adam nodded and bent over his brother’s cot, which was again mounted on the bed carriage invented by his surgeon.  “Hey, little buddy, how you doin’?”

    Little Joe looked at the world through drug-blurred eyes, but he seemed to recognize his brother’s face.  “Don’ wanna go school,” he muttered.

    Adam released a light chuckle, remembering the many times a young Joe would mumble similar words when awakened on a school-day morning.  He wasn’t sure whether his brother was lost in a dream of those uncomplicated days of his youth or reemphasizing his distaste for going to college.  Either way, the same answer would suffice.  “Okay, buddy,” Adam soothed, “you don’t have to go to school.”  And however Joe may have interpreted the remark, in Adam’s heart it was a vow to never again push the issue of college with his brother.

    “We should get him into his bed now,” the doctor reminded Adam.

    “All right,” Adam agreed reluctantly and bent over Joe once more.  “I have to go now, buddy.  You get yourself a good rest, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

    “‘Kay,” Joe muttered, eyelids drooping.

    Adam stood in the hallway, watching until his brother’s bed was out of sight; then, having no more reason to remain in Pennsylvania Hospital, he left via the Eighth Street entrance.  He should, of course, have headed directly to the offices of Western Union and sent that telegram to his father, but he told himself that it could wait until after he’d eaten.  A glance at his watch confirmed that the Washington’s dining hall would close within an hour, although if he were honest, he had time to post a telegram and get back to the hotel before two.  Honesty made even deeper inroads after Adam placed his dinner order, and he was able to admit that he had delayed sending the telegram, not because he was hungry, but because he didn’t really want to send it at all.

    As he waited for his meal to arrive, Adam debated the issue.  He could not, of course, hide a crisis of this magnitude from his father, but it took little imagination to visualize what his father would do when that telegram arrived at the Ponderosa.  Within minutes Ben Cartwright would be packing his bags and making preparations to catch the next train east, frantic with worry for the seven days it took to reach his baby son.  More than likely, Hoss would be hopping that train, as well, and it wouldn’t be good to leave the ranch that short-handed, Adam rationalized.  Then he checked himself.  That wasn’t honest, either.  Truthfully, he didn’t want his father showing up to take over.  There were reasons he wanted to be left in charge, but what he wanted didn’t really matter.  The only thing that mattered was what Joe needed—but did he really need Pa?

    By the time Pa could get here, Little Joe would either be dead or, if he continued as he had begun, on his way to recovery.  Either way, the trip east would be a futile one for their father.  Knowing Ben Cartwright, though, he would want to be with his ailing son during his recovery, but that was want again, not need.  Adam felt perfectly confident in his ability to provide the care his brother needed during his convalescence.  More importantly, if he were to rebuild the broken relationship with Joe, he needed—yes, needed, not just wanted—unbroken time with his brother.  And he could not have that if Ben Cartwright were to ride in on his iron horse, like a unit of cavalry charging to the rescue.

    He could gain the time he needed by the simple stratagem of informing his father of Joe’s illness by regular mail, rather than telegraph, and a letter would afford him the opportunity to explain his actions more fully.  By the time it arrived in Nevada, he should know for certain how Joe was progressing, and he could send a wire updating the boy’s condition for their father.  Pa would undoubtedly skin him alive when he found out, but it was a price Adam was willing to pay.

    The food arrived, but Adam dallied over it, not really looking forward to writing that letter.  Then it occurred to him that he would be wiser to wait until evening, after he’d had time to compose his thoughts, and write during the hours when he could do nothing else.  Another conclusion quickly followed.  Since he wanted to be with Little Joe every moment he was permitted in that surgical ward and would need to be in full-time attendance on him after his dismissal from the hospital, this afternoon represented the most free time he was likely to see for several weeks.  He needed to use it wisely, and Adam immediately realized that the wisest use of the remaining hours of the afternoon was to return to the Centennial, not as a tourist, but as buying agent for the Ponderosa.  With that responsibility out of the way, he could devote his full attention to Joe.  He hurriedly finished his dinner, foregoing dessert, and ran for a streetcar out to Fairmount Park.

    He made a beeline first to Machinery Hall to buy four sets of name-bearing suspenders, just the way Joe had wanted.  Then he practically ran the remaining aisles of that building, as well as the Main Exhibition Hall across the way, buying tableware and glasses and whatever else he thought the Ponderosa required and arranging for its shipment home.  Every time there was a choice to be made, he selected the item that had appealed to his little brother, unless he had good reason to make a different choice.  If worse came to worst, Pa and Hoss would appreciate those items all the more for knowing that their beloved son and brother had picked them.

    Adam tossed his head abruptly to dislodge that thought.  Joe wasn’t going to die; he was going to be just fine.  Deep inside, Adam knew those doctors had been right: getting that infected appendix out had been the key.  With it gone, Little Joe had every chance of recovery, and all that strong-willed, life-loving boy had ever needed, in any crisis of his life, was a fighting chance.

    Only one item did Adam Cartwright purchase for himself that afternoon.  As he passed the Italian pavilion, he remembered how much the wooden cherubs from Venice had reminded him of his little brother, and suddenly he had to have one of those curly-headed carvings.  Returning to the hotel when the Exhibition closed for the day, he set the little figurine on the writing desk where he could see it as he began to put on paper the words he had worked out during the long rides to and from the Centennial grounds.  He paused only a moment, and then began to write, the words flowing smoothly from pen to paper:
Dear Pa,

I regret to inform you that your son Joseph fell seriously ill this morning.  To my shame, I must admit that I did not, at first, believe his illness was genuine and, therefore, delayed getting him the prompt medical attention his condition demanded.  There were reasons I thought he was shamming, but I make no excuses.  I should have examined him more closely.  When I finally did, I realized the gravity of his condition and immediately summoned a doctor, who diagnosed his illness as appendicitis.  Dr. Martin may be more familiar with it as perityphlitis and can certainly answer your medical questions more completely than I.
    Joe’s doctor, the eminent Dr. Thomas Morton, advised surgery for removal of the appendix before perforation, a departure from the standard treatment, but one that he and his colleague felt gave Joe a better chance of survival.  I agreed to the operation over Joe’s strong personal objections because I did not consider him competent to make decisions at that point.  The surgery went well, the appendix being removed prior to perforation, and Joe is stable at this time.
    You may expect a telegram from me on the day this letter arrives, so that you will know his current condition within hours of reading this.  If you have not received a telegram prior to the arrival of this letter, Pa, be assured that all is well with your youngest son, as I will certainly wire at once should Joe’s condition worsen in any degree.
    I realize you are probably feeling intense anger with me as you read this.  You are wondering why it is a letter you are receiving today and not a telegram a week ago, when these events occurred.  In part, I have charted this course so that I can give you a more complete picture of Joe’s health, but I have personal reasons, as well.  I hope you can forgive me, but it was something I felt I had to do.
    I know your first instinct is to come here immediately, but I don’t believe there is any necessity of your making that long journey.  I honestly believe I can give Joe the care he needs, so there is no need for you to neglect other responsibilities, which only you can fulfill.  That isn’t my real reason for asking you not to come, however.  Despite your warnings, I have treated Joe shabbily with my insistence on doing things my way and my failure to look at various situations through his eyes.  I fear that my relationship with him will be at an end if I do not somehow make amends for my misguided attempts to force what I believed best on him, including the surgery that I firmly feel has saved his life.  I need a chance to make it up to Joe, Pa, and there is no way I can if you are here.  He’ll immediately turn to you, as he always does, and shut me out of his life, perhaps forever.
    We hit the breakers, Pa, and we’re tossing about in choppy waters, just as you warned me, but I believe we can weather this storm if you’ll let me continue steering the ship.  Please give me that chance.  Please trust me.

Your loving and penitent son,
Adam
 

    Adam read the letter over, and satisfied that he’d made the best case he possibly could, he placed it in an envelope, sealed it and wrote the address on the outside.  Then, picking up the wooden image of Little Joe, he carried it to his room and set it on the bedside table, so it would be the first thing he saw upon awakening.  Though he found it hard to fall sleep, he finally drifted off, yearning for the morning to come when he could return to the hospital and begin his campaign to win back the heart of the carved cherub’s original.

    Hands, touching him . . . a voice, calling him, but not one he knew.  Little Joe moaned, turning his face into the pillow, seeking again the silent, pain-free realm of slumber.  Covers pulled back, a faint breeze blowing across bare flesh, hands again.  Still half-asleep, Joe reached down to push them away.

    “Here now, lad, none of that,” said the voice.  Joe opened his eyes to gaze groggily into the face of a big-framed man with pale complexion and rust-colored hair.  “It’s sorry I am to wake you so early,” the man was saying, “but ‘tis the way of things here.”

    “Here?  Where?” Joe babbled, disoriented.  Nothing—and no one—in this dimly lighted room looked familiar.

    The man bent over him with a kindly look.  “Oh, me poor lad, still lost in your dreams, are ye?  Or maybe ‘tis the morphine.  Do ye not remember bein’ in the Pennsylvania Hospital, then?  You’ve had an operation, so they tell me, so it’s the men’s surgical ward you’re on.”

    The memories surged back.  “I-I remember,” Joe murmured.  He frowned at the pervading darkness.  “What—what time is it?”

    “Just past four in the morning,” the Irishman replied, “a sorry time to wake a sick lad, I know, but it can’t be helped.  With so many to tend, we’ve got to start early.  Now lie still and let me do for you what has to be done.”

    The last traces of drowsiness jolted loose as Joe felt cold porcelain being slid beneath his buttocks.  He was grateful, though, as soon as he understood what the object was and made immediate use of the bedpan.  As his attendant moved to the next man to perform the same service for him, Joe glanced down the long aisle of beds, full of men like himself, either sleeping or looking as if they wished they could.  He didn’t feel like counting them, but he could tell it was a large room, and that practically every bed was full, both in his aisle and in the one lining the opposite wall.  The room was almost eerily quiet, virtually silent but for an occasional murmur or moan.

    Finished with the bedpan, Joe called softly, “Mister?”

    “Be back to you soon as I can, me boy,” the man, now two beds down, called.  “I’ve six, in all, to tend to.”

    Joe closed his eyes, resolving to endure the uncomfortable position until the man had time to help him, for the slightest movement brought pain to his side.  Not the stabbing pain he’d felt the day before, though—more of a dull ache this time, but strong enough to keep him from moving about much.

    Though the wait seemed eternal, only a few minutes actually passed before the Irishman returned to remove the bedpan. Joe sighed with relief as he again felt flat linen beneath him.  He closed his eyes, still longing for sleep, but another physical sensation kept him awake, this time the touch of warm water on his bared chest.  “What you doin’?” he asked blearily.

    “Time for your mornin’ bath, me boy,” the Irishman chuckled cheerily, “and you’ll be wishin’ you could have another in a few hours’ time, for it gets fair hot in these wards, and you’re a good way from the window.”

    “Are you a doctor?” Joe asked.

    This time the attendant laughed so loudly that others working in the ward turned to look at him in rebuke.  “No, more’s the pity, for it’s a richer man I’d be if I were,” he said as he lathered Joe’s chest with soap.  “I’m just Patrick, a poor bloke seekin’ his way through this world as best he can.”

    “Oh,” Joe said and had no strength to carry on further conversation.  He lay still and unresisting as Patrick washed his body, covered him carefully and moved on to the next bed to carry out the same routine for another patient.  As Joe drifted back to sleep, questions ran through his head, only one seeming important enough to give more than momentary consideration in his weakened state: where was Adam?

    Having spent a restless night, Adam awoke early.  He smiled at the cherub sitting on his night table and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  Realizing he had time to spare, he dawdled over his grooming.  You’d almost think I was Joe, getting dandified for a dance, he told his reflection as he smoothed each dark hair immaculately into place.  He took his time getting dressed and still had time to read that morning’s issue of the Public Ledger in its entirety before going down to breakfast.

    Adam toyed with his bacon and eggs, almost as if he were the one ill, instead of Joe, too anxious to see his little brother to enjoy the meal.  One paid a price, evidently, for the greater efficiency and availability of medical care here in the East.  Back home, one might not receive a doctor’s attention as quickly, but neither would that doctor interfere with a family’s attendance on a sick member.  To be fair, of course, that was only happening here because his brother was in a hospital.  Even in the East, most families cared for their infirm at home, but in a hospital one had to submit to rules made for the good of all, even if sometimes they trespassed on the rights of an individual.  Adam found it hard to respond to that philosophical wisdom in this particular case, though, when the individual was one who meant the world to him.

    Finishing the meal, he walked to the post office and mailed the letter to his father, his hand hesitating only a moment before releasing the envelope.  Coming back to Chestnut Street, he paused, reminded by its nearness of Western Union, but assuring himself that he’d made the right decision for all involved by not wiring home news calculated to bring more worry than relief, he walked to Washington Square, where he rested beneath a shady oak until time to visit Joe.

    He arrived at the hospital and went up to the second floor, where he’d been told he could find the men’s surgical ward.  A woman in a crisp blue and white uniform, seated at a desk just outside the entrance to the large ward, stopped him and informed him that patients could not receive visitors on Saturday.  “Dr. Morton and Dr. Whittaker both assured me that I could see my brother this morning,” Adam protested tersely.

    The woman’s steely gaze softened at once.  “Oh, of course.  You must be Mr. Cartwright.  There was a note on my desk concerning you this morning.”

    “Then I presume I may see my brother,” Adam said, trying to speak in a more relaxed manner, though he still felt tension crawling up his spine.

    “Certainly, for one hour this morning and two this afternoon,” the woman said.  “Does that agree with your understanding, Mr. Cartwright?”

    “Perfectly, Miss . . .”

    “Miss Frances Irwin, Chief Nurse, Mr. Cartwright.”

    “You’re in charge of this ward?  Then, perhaps, you could tell me what kind of night my brother had,” Adam suggested.

    “I supervise all the wards, Mr. Cartwright, as well as the nurses’ training program instituted here just last year,” Miss Irwin stated with obvious pride, “although, of course, none of our female nurses directly attends any male patient.  As to your brother, I couldn’t say, as I only came on duty this morning.  He was sleeping restfully at that time, though.  His chart did note that he had received an injection of morphine during the night.”

    “He’s in pain, then?” Adam asked with concern.

    “Some wound pain is quite normal after surgery, sir,” Miss Irwin assured him, “and the use of morphine standard for that purpose.  It doesn’t indicate anything amiss.”

    “Good.”  Adam’s relief was evident in his ebony eyes.

    “In fact,” the Chief Nurse continued, “I saw to it that your brother received another injection this morning, as the doctor’s orders permitted, for he seemed to be in some discomfort.  I also noted that he did not touch his breakfast, but that’s not uncommon following surgery.  You shouldn’t be overly concerned.”

    Familiar with Joe’s typically poor appetite during illness, Adam smiled and again asked permission to enter the ward.  Reminding him that his brother was probably sleeping, as were other patients, Miss Irwin asked that he enter quietly, but readily granted permission.

    Adam walked in, searching for his brother’s face among the thirty or so beds in the ward.  When he spotted Joe in the fourth bed from the door, he smiled and moved closer with light steps.  Joe was, as the nurse had predicted, asleep, and Adam, of course, did not attempt to wake him.  The boy had been through an ordeal the previous day and needed all the rest he could get.  He softly touched Joe’s forehead and was relieved to feel it only slightly warm.  Motivated by a mixture of concern and curiosity, Adam lifted the covers to examine his brother’s side.  Since the area was swathed in bandages, all he could see was a tube, the color of dark earth, hanging from his brother’s side—a drain, of course, necessary to combat infection, but an ugly and, most likely, uncomfortable thing.

    There was a chair at the side of the bed, so after he’d eased the sheet back over the wound, Adam sat down to wait, willing his brother to wake, willing him to continue sleeping.  Joe did the latter.  Not once during the hour that Adam spent at his side did the boy’s eyes open.  Disappointed, Adam brushed aside the lock of chestnut hair that had characteristically fallen across Joe’s forehead and before leaving the ward whispered a promise to see him later.

    Having two hours to kill until he could again see Joe, Adam decided to have dinner at Fairmount Park.  Since half of his time would be spent merely riding the horse cars there and back, he felt foolish, but he was too restless to simply sit in his hotel room.  Besides, he’d been a bit hurried yesterday afternoon and thought it might be wise to take another walk through the Main Exhibition Hall, to be certain he hadn’t overlooked some important purchase.  Beyond that, he had no desire to see any more of the Centennial until he could do so with Joe again at his side.  He had no heart for the wonders of the world without that youthful perspective to freshen his vision of the familiar and intensify his awe of all that was new.

    Still having time to spare after he’d eaten a light meal at the Café Leland and finished his shopping for the ranch, Adam wandered across the street to Shantyville, just because it reminded him of Joe.  He meandered through the booths, remembering how he and Joe had scrounged for food on the Fourth of July.  He thought about buying a bag of roasted peanuts for Joe, in remembrance of that pleasant day together, but then he realized that peanuts weren’t the best food for a boy who, thus far, hadn’t taken a bite of nourishment.  Still wishing he could take some small present to his brother, Adam spotted a balloon vender and impulsively bought one—yellow, of course, like the one Joe had chosen that day at the zoo.

    Catching the horse car, Adam struggled to keep the balloon under control as he rode back toward town.  He couldn’t help noticing the stares of his fellow passengers, though most merely smiled, evidently having concluded that he was taking the balloon to a child.  Not so far wrong, Adam told himself with bittersweet recollection of his first reaction to Joe’s buying a balloon, but I wouldn’t have him any other way.

    The car stopped close to the hospital, and Adam wasted no time in bounding up the steps of the building, balloon in hand.  Heads turned, but no one said anything.  As he approached the door to the men’s surgical ward, he slowed his steps.  Down the hall he saw Miss Irwin exit from another ward and waved to her as he went in to see Joe.  He did not notice her hurrying down the hall after him.

    Adam sighed as he once again saw his brother, sound asleep in the fourth bed, but he couldn’t begrudge the boy his needed rest.  Although Adam suspected the sleep was again the result of morphine, it was obviously a peaceful one.  Not wanting to hold the balloon until—or perhaps ‘if’ was more accurate—Joe awaked, Adam began to tie its string to the iron rail at the foot of his brother’s bed.

    “Mr. Cartwright, what are you doing?” a brisk voice demanded.

    Adam turned to see the stern face of the Chief Nurse.  “Why, I’m visiting my brother, Miss Irwin,” he replied smoothly, “although I see that he’s again asleep.”

    “As he should be,” the nurse said firmly.  “I was referring to that .”  She pointed at the yellow balloon attached to the bed rail.

    Adam grinned.  “I suppose it seems foolish, but I believe it will have special meaning for him.”

    “You cannot leave that here, Mr. Cartwright.”

    “Why?”

    “Because—well, because—well, it simply isn’t in our regulations,” the nurse babbled.

    “Do the regulations specifically state ‘no balloons’?” Adam asked with cocked head and quizzically arched eyebrow.

    “No, not specifically,” Miss Irwin admitted, “but, really, it—it detracts from a professional appearance.”

    An amused smiled skewed across Adam’s face.  “If you can tell me a single way in which having something pleasant to look at will retard this boy’s recovery, or disturb any other patient, I’ll remove it, but otherwise I expect you to leave it alone.”  Though his tone was pleasant, the firm set of his jaw left no question that he meant what he said, and he was quite willing to stand on his brother’s status as a paying patient to get his own way.

    “Aw, leave it, ma’am,” called the patient in the next bed.  “This drab place can use a spot of color.”

    Miss Irwin’s lips twitched, despite her attempt to maintain professional aloofness.  “Very well, Mr. Cartwright—unless the doctor specifically objects.”

    “Thank you,” Adam said simply.  He glanced toward his sleeping brother.  “Has he been sleeping the entire time I was away or has he had another injection?”

    “He was awake briefly and was given another dose of morphine after dinner,” the nursing supervisor said.  “It’s standard the first day or two after surgery, Mr. Cartwright, which is why you really are wasting your time in coming to see him before Monday.”

    “I don’t consider it a waste,” Adam said softly.  “I’m pleased to see him resting.”

    Miss Irwin smiled, then, touched by the young man’s devotion to his brother.

    “You said ‘after dinner,’” Adam recalled.  “Did he eat?”

    “A bit of broth,” she replied.

    “Good.  Thank you for speaking with me, Miss Irwin.”

    The nurse nodded and returned to her desk, leaving Adam to his silent vigil at his sleeping brother’s side.  Four o’clock came and Adam reluctantly took leave of Little Joe.  Leaning over the bed, he whispered, “I’ll see you tomorrow, buddy,” and walked away, thinking, I just hope you’ll see me!

    When Little Joe awoke several hours later, the first thing he saw was the bright yellow balloon, bobbing at the foot of his bed.  He smiled, realizing at once who must have put it there, but he wondered why Adam himself was not with him.  He finally decided that his brother must be busy visiting the Centennial.  After all, it was the reason Adam had come to Philadelphia, and he had said after that fracas at the Art Annex that he wouldn’t allow Joe to spoil it for him.  Joe didn’t want to spoil anything for his brother, either, but he couldn’t help feeling a bit saddened at the prospect of being left alone for who knew how long in Pennsylvania Hospital.

    Little Joe was awakened for the second time Sunday morning, hazily opening his eyes to find his bed surrounded by six men, one of whom pulled down the linen sheet and lightweight blanket covering him, lifted his nightshirt, fumbled over his side and mumbled something about how an incision looked.  Uncomfortable with the exposure, but having no strength to resist and with even his feeble protest silenced by the prompt insertion of a thermometer, Joe could only watch edgily as one by one the doctors, as he assumed them to be, leaned over him to examine his side with probing fingertips.  He recognized only one of the men, the one who had come to the hotel room, although the older man looked vaguely familiar, as well.  Somewhat reassured by that doctor’s comment that he was “coming along nicely,” delivered with a pat on the knee after the covers had been replaced, Joe again fell into an exhausted sleep, only to be reawakened once more and presented with an unappetizing bowl of gruel for breakfast.  After choking down a few bites he again dozed off.

    Promptly at eleven, Adam stepped quietly to the side of his brother’s bed, shaking his head at the still figure lying in it.  “Buddy, I am about to despair of ever finding you awake,” he sighed.

    Hovering at the brink dividing daylight from dreams, Joe recognized a familiar voice and opened his eyes to smile with soft relief at the sight of his brother’s face.

    Adam bent solicitously over him.  “I’m sorry.  Did I wake you?”

    “I knew you’d come,” Joe whispered, his gaze falling on the balloon, now beginning to droop at the end of his bed.

    Turning quickly to follow his brother’s line of sight, Adam was suddenly enormously glad that he’d given in to the childish urge to buy that bit of brightness.  “You didn’t doubt that, did you?” he asked with concern.  While he himself felt that he was abandoning Joe every time he left the hospital, he didn’t want Joe to feel that way.  He certainly didn’t need that kind of misunderstanding to build a higher wall between him and his brother!

    “I knew you’d come,” Joe repeated in a whisper, but it was obvious from the way his eyes stayed on the balloon that it was a token to which the boy had been clinging.

    Adam rested his hand against his brother’s forehead, pleased by its coolness.  “How are you feeling?”

    “Tired,” Joe said, the words coming out with a pitiful whimper.  “They won’t let me sleep, Adam.”

    A surprised laugh burst from Adam’s lips.  “Little buddy, you haven’t done anything but sleep!”

    The luminous green eyes grew puzzled, then pained.  Just like back at the hotel, Adam didn’t believe him.  “No,” Joe insisted.  “No, Adam.”

    Adam tousled Joe’s hair.  “You just think you haven’t slept because you’re tired, and that’s not surprising, after all you’ve been through, but I can assure you that you’ve been asleep every time I visited you.”  Seeing Joe’s furrowed brow, Adam dropped his hand to his brother’s shoulder.  “Look, I don’t want to keep you from your rest.  Would you like me to leave, so you can sleep some more?”

    Joe’s left hand crept from beneath the covers and he groped for his brother’s hand.  “No, please . . . please stay.”

    “As long as they’ll let me,” Adam said quickly, responding to his brother’s pleading tone.  With Joe still clasping his hand, he pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed.  “Joe, has anyone explained the hospital’s visiting hours to you?”  A shake of Joe’s head confirmed Adam’s suspicion, and he quickly explained that he was only allowed to visit three hours each day.  “But I’ve been here every minute they would let me, and I’ll keep doing that.”

    Joe had frowned at the recitation of the rules, but he smiled at his brother’s promise.  His eyelids grew heavy, and several times Adam thought the boy had fallen asleep.  Whenever he tried to slip his hand out of Joe’s, however, the green eyes would immediately open and the slender fingers tighten.  Though uncomfortable, Adam continued to sit, quietly holding his brother’s hand for the duration of his hour-long visit.

    There were things he wanted to say to Joe, questions he ached to ask.  He longed to beg the boy’s forgiveness for failing to believe him when he’d said he was ill.  He yearned to ask whether Joe still hated him for forcing him into this hospital and compelling him to undergo an unwanted surgery, but Adam said nothing.  Refusing to soothe his own conscience at the expense of causing Joe the slightest distress, he said almost nothing.  The silence didn’t seem to bother Joe, though, so long as Adam continued to hold his hand.

    Joe’s reaction when Adam stood to leave was even more pronounced than when he had merely shifted position.  Adam reminded his brother that the hospital rules required that he leave by noon.  “I’ll see you this afternoon, around two o’clock, Joe,” he said firmly and with determination pulled his hand free from Joe’s entreating grasp.  Settling the covers smoothly over his brother, Adam added, “You eat a good dinner, so you can get your strength back quickly, all right?”  Looking decidedly unhappy, Little Joe gave a noncommittal nod, and Adam left, shaking his head, somehow doubting that the feeble acquiescence was a promise to be relied on.

    As he sat in the dining room of the Washington Hotel, Adam had to admonish himself to follow the same advice he’d given his younger brother, for his own appetite was not much better than he imagined Joe’s to be.  He had too much on his mind, and nothing seemed important except being with his brother.  He’d seen the way the boy had been fighting sleep all through his visit and for the first time entertained the notion that the hospital might be right in formulating those restrictive rules.  His presence in the ward was obviously keeping Joe from rest, as he strained to stay awake every minute Adam was with him.  Odd, he never was such a clinging vine at home, Adam mused, but then he didn’t have to be.  He knew one of us was always near, so he could relax, instead of grabbing for every minute of contact.   On second thought, his original opinion of those bothersome hospital rules had been the correct one, Adam concluded.  Joe did need his family with him, but that wasn’t possible in the present circumstance, and the thought of his little brother, lying there, needing him, was enough to make Adam push away his plate, still half full.

    He walked outside and strolled to the nearest bookstore, where he selected a couple of books for himself, one a volume on the care of invalids.  Notes on Nursing had been in print for many years, but Adam felt there could be no better authority on the subject than Florence Nightingale.  He didn’t know exactly how soon Joe would be released to his care, but he wanted to be ready to do whatever would enhance his brother’s comfort and speed his recovery, and that subject appeared to be well covered in the pioneer nurse’s treatise.

    Then he began to look around for a book for Joe, who would need some form of quiet occupation during his recuperation.  With a sigh he shuffled through a pile of dime novels, since Joe seemed to enjoy such fodder, but each lurid cover illustration only confirmed his belief that tales of murder, mayhem and violence would not be appropriate reading material for a young man who was supposed to be resting quietly.  He wandered around the store, pondering what Joe would like and came to the conclusion that he didn’t know his little brother nearly as well as he should, for he had no idea which book to select.  Oh, he’d bought Joe books all his life, ever since the youngster had spelled out his first words in a primer, but he’d always chosen what he thought the child, then boy and, finally, young man, should read.  To make a selection based solely on what his little brother would enjoy, rather than on its educational benefit, was a new undertaking, and Adam felt lost until a picture flashed in his mind of Joe sitting in the booksellers’ pavilion of the Main Exhibition Hall, thumbing through an edition of Sir Walter Scott’s romantic tales.  “I’ve always liked Scott,” Joe had fumed when Adam teased him.

    Adam winced as he recalled Joe’s accusation that he’d been so busy looking for something to criticize that he hadn’t noticed what kind of material actually appealed to his little brother.  You were right, little buddy, but I’ve learned my lesson.  Scott, it is.  He selected a beautifully illustrated volume of Ivanhoe, bound in red morocco leather with gilt edges, and purchased it.  Even if Joe had already read the tale of medieval chivalry, as Adam suspected, he would appreciate having a copy as fine as this.

    Since he had about half an hour before time to return to the hospital, Adam went to the hotel, laying the books on the desk.  He wouldn’t take the gift to Joe today.  The boy was obviously too tired to read, and Adam intended to encourage him to sleep this afternoon, visitor or no visitor.  Perhaps by tomorrow Joe would be more alert and would welcome a new book to while away the lonely hours.  Adam stretched out on the settee a few minutes, keeping an eye on his watch, so he wouldn’t miss a minute of the permitted time with his brother.

    The afternoon visit went much the same as the morning one.  Little Joe obviously didn’t feel like talking, but he fought every suggestion of sleep.  Adam finally gave up and, except for an occasional soft-spoken sentence, just sat beside his brother, quietly stroking his arm, since Joe seemed to crave physical contact.  Joe didn’t argue this time when Adam said he had to leave, probably because he was too drowsy to say much at all.  At least, that was how he appeared to his older brother.

    Adam returned to the hotel to stretch out on his bed until suppertime.  After eating, he returned upstairs and began to read Notes on Nursing until it was time for him to turn in.

    Little Joe was again awakened before dawn on Monday morning, but while he still hated to be roused at what was, to him, an ungodly hour, he felt alert enough to start a conversation with Patrick as the Irishman began to bathe him.  “You like this kind of work?”

    Patrick chuckled good-naturedly.  “Sure an’ it matters not what I like, lad.  ‘Tis me job.”

    Joe’s nose crinkled in distaste at the thought of emptying bedpans and washing sweaty bodies for a living.  “Can’t you get other work?  This is an awful big city, must have lots of jobs.”

    Patrick laughed, careful to keep his voice low, however.  “Aye, and if I can ever pay me bail from this place, maybe I’ll be takin’ one of them.”

    “Bail?”  Joe looked perplexed.  While he felt like he was in jail, he was surprised to hear a hospital worker speak of the place in those terms.

    “Me bill, lad,” Patrick stated in a matter-of-fact manner that indicated his expectation that Joe would know what he meant.  When the boy’s puzzled face communicated that he did not, Patrick went on to explain, “I hadn’t the money to pay me way, so as long as I’m here, I’ve got to help out all I can on the wards.  ‘Twill be the same with you when you’re better.”

    Uneasiness replaced puzzlement on Joe’s countenance.  “You’re a patient, like me?” he queried nervously.  “And they make you work off your bill?”

    Patrick wrung out a damp cloth and began to rinse Joe’s chest.  “Aye, sure, hurt in an accident at the docks, I was, and not strong enough yet for the heavy liftin’ I did there, but I will be soon, I’m thinkin’, and able to put this place behind me.  Now, don’t let it fret you, lad.  They won’t work you beyond your strength.  ‘As you’re able’ is the rule of it.”  Patrick patted Joe dry with a towel, told him he could go back to sleep if he liked and moved on to the next patient, unaware of the distress he’d caused.

    Confused by what he had heard, Joe couldn’t sleep for the troubling questions rushing through his mind.  Was Adam refusing to pay his medical expenses?  It wasn’t part of their original bargain, of course, but Joe hadn’t thought his brother capable of that kind of harshness.  Adam had been awful angry, though, so maybe he didn’t care—or maybe he just plain didn’t have enough money.  That was more like it, although it was hard to think of Adam ever running short of cash.  Joe had no idea how much these fancy eastern doctors charged or how much it cost to keep him in this place, but there was a simple solution to that expense, if only he could persuade his older brother.

    What happened shortly after breakfast, which Joe was too upset to eat, made him more determined than ever to talk Adam into letting him leave the hospital.  The bevy of doctors again surrounded his bed, ignoring his demand to be left alone.  A dozen curious eyes raked over his side, and the oldest man in the group announced that the patient showed no signs of infection, and therefore, it was time for his drainage tube to be removed.  He asked who had not performed that procedure, and three hands were raised.  “You do it then, Chambers,” the man who appeared to be in charge suggested.

    Chambers lumbered to Joe’s side, took hold of the earth-tone tube and gave it a firm yank.  Joe screamed, bolting upright, and several sets of hands pressed him to the bed.

    “Sorry, son,” the older doctor said.  He turned to castigate Chambers for his reckless and needless haste.  “Johnson, you take over and stitch up that opening, hopefully with a more sensitive hand than this oaf.”

    “No, go away,” Joe pleaded, eyes wide with terror.

    “Easy, lad.”  Dr. Morton patted the patient’s shoulder.

    Johnson, as tall and lanky as Chambers had been short and stout, approached the patient with a nervous gait.  “Uh, sh-should I anesthetize the patient, Dr. Morton?”

    “For a couple of stitches?” Dr. Morton snorted.  “Just put them in quickly and smoothly.”

    “After all, westerners are reported to be a hardy lot,” the doctor who had come to the hotel announced with a chuckle, “more accustomed to biting on a bullet than to civilized anesthesia.”

    “Nonsense, Whittaker,” Dr. Morton scolded.  He patted Joe’s shoulder again.  “Over soon, son.  Try to relax and it will hurt less.”

    If this was an example of something that ‘hurt less,’ Joe decided he didn’t want to experience these doctors’ idea of what would hurt more.  Johnson made a genuine effort to stitch quickly and smoothly, as instructed, but his edgy hand shook as he inserted the needle into Joe’s flesh.  The patient’s sharp grunt of pain halted him in mid-stitch, and he had to be encouraged to continue.  Fortunately, only two stitches were required to close the small opening.

    As the doctors and students moved on to their next victim, as Joe viewed his fellow patient, he lay still, eyes closed, lower lip quivering, waiting for the pulling pain to subside.  It did, eventually, though not before the doctors finished their rounds and left the ward.  Joe hitched himself up in the bed and began practicing a healthy smile.

    When Adam arrived that morning, he was surprised to see Joe sitting up in bed.  Though at first pleased, he noticed the strain on his brother’s face and quickly discerned that the boy was trying too hard to look well.  Joe’s first words were a confirmation of that observation.  “I’m feelin’ a lot better today, Adam.”

    Adam pulled the straight-backed chair up next to Joe’s bed.  “I’m glad to hear that, Joe,” he said, mouth quirking to one side, and sat down to await the wheedling that was sure to follow.

    “I’m ready to go home, if you’ll have me,” Joe said, trying without success to keep his voice from quavering.

    Reminding himself to be patient, Adam rubbed the back of Joe’s hand.  “It’s not a question of whether I’d have you,” he said calmly, “but of what is best for you.  It’s much too soon for you to leave your bed, Joe.  Your own body should tell you that—and don’t think for one minute that you’re fooling me with this sudden display of hearty health.”

    Joe’s emerald eyes began to swim.  “If you can’t pay the bill here, Pa will,” he pleaded.  “I’m too sick to be nursin’ folks, Adam.  I-I don’t even think I could stand it if I was feelin’ good.”

    “What?”  Adam drawled out the word as he stared at Joe in total confusion; then he laid his palm against the boy’s forehead to check for fever, delirium being the only explanation he could think of for the irrational speech.

    Joe brushed his brother’s hand aside.  “I shoulda known you wouldn’t care.  You never think I pull my weight—not at home, not here.”  He turned his face aside, refusing to look at his brother.

    Adam stood, placing his hands on his brother’s slim shoulders.  “Joe, what’s bothering you, boy?”

    Joe flinched violently away, groaning as the movement sent a jab of pain through his side.  “Go away!”

    The Chief Nurse, checking on patients across the room, heard the outcry and moved quickly to Joe’s side.  “Is he in pain?” she asked Adam solicitously.  “I know he suffered some discomfort when they removed his drainage tube this morning.”

    “Some?”  Joe gave a half-hysterical cackle.  “Some, she says!”

    “I think he’s just a bit overwrought,” Adam replied, touching a soothing hand to Joe’s shoulder.

    “Now, we can’t have that,” Miss Irwin stated adamantly.  “Perhaps a sedative would be in order.  Dr. Morton did authorize it, if needed.”

    “No,” Joe snapped, eyes jerking back to glare at the nurse.

    Adam bent over his brother, urging him to relax and then rose up to speak to Miss Irwin.  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said, knowing Joe’s aversion to medication, a sentiment he shared.  “You’re going to settle down now, aren’t you, Joe?”

    Little Joe recognized the warning in his older brother’s words and with a furtive glance at the nurse, whispered meekly, “Yes.”

    Nurse Irwin gave her patient careful scrutiny, and while not taken in by the swift transformation, she decided not to push the issue of sedation unless continued agitation warranted it.  “I would still prefer to see him lying down,” she said firmly.

    “And so he shall,” Adam promised, sliding his arm behind Joe’s back to ease him into a reclining position, his face and manner declaring that the edict was not to be disputed.

    It was an expression with which Little Joe was well familiar, having frequently seen it on his father’s face, so he acquiesced without argument, although his eyes continued to shimmer with unshed tears.

    When Miss Irwin walked back across the room, Adam adjusted his brother’s pillow.  “Do you still want me to leave?”

Joe shook his head.

“Shall we start over, then?  Good morning, Joe.”

    “It would be if you’d take me home,” Joe suggested.

    Adam took a deep, controlling breath and exhaled with a gust.  “When I said ‘start over,’ I did not mean on the same subject,” he said tersely.  “I’ve already told you that you’re not well enough to leave the hospital, and if you persist in this direction, you’re only going to upset yourself and have Miss Irwin running for a hypodermic needle.  Is that what you want?”

    Joe bit his lower lip, but said nothing.  Seeing the nervousness, Adam chided himself for being overly firm with a sick boy and attempted to open a safer topic.  “Did you have a restful night?” he asked gently.

     “Okay, I guess.”  Joe looked away.  What was the use of saying anything about how things really were here?  Adam wouldn’t believe him anyway.  Adam would never believe him about anything, ever again.

    Adam sat down, resting one ankle over his opposite knee.  “Looks like it’s going to be hot as a firecracker again today,” he observed, “twenty-second day in a row, according to the newspaper.”  The Public Ledger had also mentioned several heat-related deaths, but Adam chose to omit that particular detail from his discussion of the weather.  Joe had problems of his own, and “death” was a word that Adam found uncomfortable in any conversation with his younger brother just now.  Instead, he chatted on, mentioning several more news items he thought might interest Joe, but the boy just lay there, quietly listening, but making no comment whatsoever.

    As the minutes crawled toward noon, Adam discovered just how hard it was to carry on a one-sided conversation, and he was rather grateful when he saw Miss Irwin appear in the doorway and stare pointedly at him.  “Time for me to go now, Joe,” he said, standing and pushing the chair back against the wall.

    Joe’s face suddenly became animated.  “No,” he pleaded.  “Don’t go yet; it can’t be time so soon.”

    Soon?  Adam felt as though he’d been in that room for hours, but obviously Joe’s perspective was quite different.  Sympathetic as he was, however, Adam knew he could not yield to those pleading eyes.  “Don’t you think I ever get hungry, little brother?” he quipped, in an effort to lighten the mood.  “I’d like to have some dinner—and you need to eat yours.”

    Joe closed his fingers on the tail of Adam’s frock coat.  “I’m not hungry; you can have mine if you stay.”

    Adam eased the fabric from his brother’s fingers and resolutely laid Joe’s hand flat on the mattress.  “That will not do, young man,” he stated authoritatively, cringing as he heard his poor imitation of Pa.  Joe’s lower lip began to tremble, and Adam knew tears were not far behind.  “Joe,” he said in a softer, less paternal voice, “I know your appetite disappears when you’re sick, but you know you need nourishment to heal properly.”

    “The food’s terrible, Adam,” Joe pouted.

    Adam patted his brother’s shoulder.  “I’m sure it’s not up to Hop Sing’s standard—or even that of the Washington Hotel—but you eat, anyway.  That’s an order.”  Pleased to see Joe responding to the gentler approach, Adam smiled.  “I have to leave now, but I’ll be back in about two hours.  You behave yourself and maybe I’ll bring you something, all right?”

    For the first time that morning Joe smiled back, in fond memory of the times Adam had appeased him with a similar promise when headed into town alone, and he responded with the same words he’d used as a child.  “I’ll be good.”

    Sharing the same recollection, Adam chuckled, ruffled his brother’s hair, just as he’d done back then, and took his leave.

    For the first time in days he enjoyed his dinner of roast pork and stewed apples and even ordered a slice of lemon cheesecake for dessert.  Little Joe was obviously feeling better today.  Even the complaint about the quality of food at the hospital indicated improvement, for the day before Joe hadn’t been interested enough in food to complain.  Maybe I’ll have to sneak in a bonbon or two, Adam mused over a final cup of coffee, but not yet.  Got to get him eating proper food first; then I’ll risk a treat.   This afternoon he would take the book to Joe, since he was more alert and might enjoy reading.  And maybe he’ll make less fuss about my leaving if he has good old Scott to keep him company.

    Little Joe was obviously delighted with the book when Adam presented it to him at two o’clock.  “It’s beautiful,” he murmured, running his hand over the rich red binding.

    “I hope it’s not one you already have,” Adam offered tentatively.  “I know you said you liked Scott, but I couldn’t remember seeing this title on your shelf.”

    “I have it,” Joe said, “but just a paper-covered copy, nothing like this.”

    Of course, Adam realized.  A number of publishers had put out cheap editions of popular works, some for as little as two bits a copy, and Joe would, of necessity, have purchased those, instead of the finely bound volumes his older brother prized.  Do you suppose that’s why he buys dime novels, because that’s what he can afford?  I really haven’t paid much attention, have I, little brother?

    “Will you read some to me now?” Joe asked, shaking Adam from his reverie.

    “Sure, buddy,” Adam said at once, taking the volume from Joe and sitting down.  Florence Nightingale had advised against reading aloud to patients, alleging that few could do it well enough for the sick to tolerate, but Adam had read to his younger brothers from childhood up and knew that both Hoss and Joe enjoyed his flair for expression, especially when they were confined to bed.  He opened the book and began to read.  He continued for about an hour, when, coming to the end of a chapter, he noticed Joe’s eyelids drooping.  Closing the book, he set it aside on the bedside table.

    Joe stirred, legs moving restlessly beneath the covers.  “Don’t stop,” he begged.

    “No, you need to sleep,” Adam said.  “No argument, Joe, and no more fighting the urge to drift off.  The book will be here when you wake up.”

    “But I want you to read it,” Joe wheedled.

    “Fine, I will—tomorrow.”

    Joe looked intently at his brother’s face and saw no sign of weakness, so with a sigh of resignation, he snuggled down in the bed and slipped into the welcoming arms of slumber.  Adam remained until four o’clock, and then returned to the hotel.

    As Adam entered the men’s surgical ward the next morning, he hoped to find his younger brother in a better frame of mind than the day before, but one glance at Joe’s tense face and the fingers wringing the covers disabused him of that delusion.  “Rough night, kid?” he asked as he sat down beside Joe.

    Joe had actually slept well, but another early morning arousal and another futile struggle to keep those doctors from prying beneath his nightshirt had left him exhausted and edgy.  “Can’t I go home today?” he implored.

    Mentally counting to ten, Adam reached out to free the sheet from Joe’s frenetic fingers.  “We discussed this yesterday, remember?  It’s still too soon, Joe.”

    Joe clutched his brother’s hand in entreaty.  “Adam, please.  I don’t feel up to working here, but as soon as I’m on my feet, I’ll see you get your money back.”

    Adam’s forehead furrowed.  Twice now Joe had voiced the same concern, and he seemed rational, so something must lie behind it.  “Joe, what are you talking about?”

    “The bill,” Joe whispered.

    Adam laughed.  “Don’t worry about that; it’s all taken care of.”

    Joe shook his head.  “No, he said . . .”

    “Who?” Adam demanded, coming to his feet.  “Who said what?”

    Joe squirmed a little, wincing as a twinge twittered along his stitches.  “The man who takes care of me every morning.  He said patients, like him and me, that can’t pay have to work off their bill.  Don’t make me do that, Adam, please.”

    Adam gave his brother’s temple a comforting stroke.  “Joe, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but no one’s going to put you to work—here or elsewhere.  Whatever you’ve heard doesn’t apply to you because I’ve already made arrangements to pay your board here.”

    Joe’s worried eyes were riveted on his brother’s face.  “You did?  Honest?”

    “Yes, of course,” Adam answered quickly, appalled that his brother would for one moment believe that he wouldn’t cover his medical expenses.  Have I been so stringent with the boy that he honestly thinks I’d begrudge him anything he needed, whatever the cost?    “Look, the only reason you’re not in a private room is that they didn’t have one available, because of the large crowds in town for the Centennial.  I’m sorry someone has upset you with this nonsense, but it simply isn’t true.”

    Joe bit his lip.  “You got enough?”

    Adam smiled, again taking his seat.  “If I don’t, I know where to get it.  No more worrying, understood?”

    Looking relieved, Joe sank back into his pillow.  “Thanks.”

    Noting the paleness of his brother’s face, Adam suggested that he try to sleep awhile.

    “I’ll sleep when you leave,” Joe bargained.  “Read to me?”

    Adam shook his head.  “You’ll sleep now—and if you look well rested when I return this afternoon, I’ll read to you then.”

    Joe pouted, but when that didn’t have any effect on his older brother, either, he sighed and closed his eyes, a soft smile curving his lips as Adam started to croon a slow melody.   Despite his intent to stay awake, Joe drifted to sleep on the song.

    As soon as he was sure Joe was asleep, Adam slipped out to find Miss Irwin and pose some pertinent questions about the use of patients as attendants at the hospital.  She willingly confirmed that recovering patients were used, not only as nursing assistants, but for janitorial duties, cooking and laundry, as well, though she assured him that no patient was ever asked to do anything beyond his or her physical capability.  “That is one way we keep this institution on a stable financial footing, Mr. Cartwright,” the Chief Nurse informed him, “but, obviously, no paying patient is required to perform such duties.  I assure you that I will determine who disturbed your brother and see that he is suitably reprimanded.”

    “No, there’s no need for that,” Adam said, his sympathy for the unknown patient aroused.  “I’m sure it was done in innocence, and the mistake is quite understandable since my brother is in the public ward.  I would appreciate your correcting the man’s misinformation, however, so that Joseph is not disturbed by any further revelations that do not relate to him.”

    “Certainly, Mr. Cartwright.  Thank you for being so understanding.”

    Adam nodded and went back to take his place at Joe’s side.  Little Joe didn’t wake before the visiting hour ended, however, so Adam left quietly.  After dinner, he walked to the Philadelphia Library and read all he could about Pennsylvania Hospital.  Although hospital care had improved greatly since the days when the insane were housed in the basement of the building where Joe now lay and exhibited to a paying public for support of the charity wards, more changes were needed, in Adam’s opinion.  The more he read, the more he understood Joe’s eagerness to leave the place and be back with his brother.  Adam resolved to be more patient with those urgent pleas to “go home.”

    Taking out his pocket watch, Adam checked the time and was dismayed to see that it was already past two o’clock.  Thinking it fortunate that Little Joe didn’t have a timepiece with him, Adam shut the book he was reading, leaving it on the table for the librarian to re-shelve and hurried back to the hospital.

    While Joe didn’t have a watch, he did, however, possess a fairly accurate internal clock, and he was visibly upset when Adam walked in.  “I thought you weren’t coming,” he fussed.

    Adam stroked his shoulder.  “Joe, Joe, I’ll always come.”

    “I’d rather you took me with you,” Joe urged, biting his lip as he waited to be rebuked.

    Adam just gave the boy’s shoulder a soothing stroke.  “You’re not strong enough yet, but soon, little brother, soon.  Now, how about some more Ivanhoe?”  At Joe’s nod, Adam picked up the book and began to read.  Noticing that his audience included the men on either side of his brother, he raised his voice slightly as he continued the adventures of Sir Wilfred and the fair Rowena.

    Little Joe had been determinedly bright-eyed and cheery ever since his older brother walked into the ward Wednesday morning, so Adam was not the least bit surprised when, about halfway into the visit, the boy hinted to leave the hospital.  “I’m feeling really, really good, Adam,” he asserted with what he hoped was a convincing lilt in his voice.

    Adam covered his mouth with his hand, so Joe wouldn’t see his twitching lips.  Sometimes the kid was just so predictable it was hard not to laugh, but Adam knew he didn’t dare.  Dropping his hand, he said softly, “Liar.”

    The façade fell abruptly away, and hurt filled the emerald eyes.  “No, Adam, I do feel better,” Joe insisted.

    “Oh, I believe you,” Adam chuckled.  “I just think ‘really, really good’ is stretching the truth—by a country mile.”

    Joe’s chin started to quiver as he faced the prospect of remaining in the hated hospital.  “Please, Adam.  I don’t like it here.  They won’t let me sleep, the food’s awful, and they gawk at me all the time like I’m in a sideshow in Shantyville.  I hate it!”

    Adam laid a calming hand on his brother’s shoulder.  “What do you mean they ‘gawk’ at you?” he asked, having learned the previous day that Joe’s complaints merited investigation.

    Joe scowled.  “I guess they’re doctors, but there’s so many of them, and they poke and prod—and—and just plain gawk.”

    With a degree of chagrin, Adam nodded his understanding.  “Some of them are medical students,” he explained, “and I’m afraid you have me to blame for the ‘gawking,’ Joe.  I gave a rather blanket permission for any doctor or medical student to examine you.”

    “Why?” Joe demanded.

    Adam took a deep breath as he tried to decide how much to tell his younger brother.  “You may not realize this, Joe,” he began, “but the operation Dr. Morton performed on you is a new procedure, so naturally, all the doctors and their students are interested in your case because of that.”  He put on his most persuasive smile.  “Just think, Joe, you may be helping to advance the cause of medical science and—”

    “I don’t care about medical science!” Joe yelped.

    “—and, thereby, helping doctors treat other people stricken with the same condition,” Adam continued as if he hadn’t heard the interruption.  “You care about that, don’t you?”

    Joe shook his head violently.  “All I care about is getting out of here, Adam.”

    Adam kneaded his forehead.  Okay, so diplomacy wasn’t going to work, much less an appeal to altruism.  “Just try to show a little more patience, all right, Joe?” he suggested.  “You’re recovering nicely, and you shouldn’t have to be here much longer.”

    “I don’t need to be here any longer, Adam,” Joe insisted.

    Adam held up a hand.  “That’s enough.”  Although it was still ten minutes ‘til noon, he stood up.  “I’m going to dinner now, and I hope to find you in a better mood when I return this afternoon.”

    “But, Adam . . .”

    “No.”  Lips set in a straight line, Adam turned and walked out of the ward, and Little Joe slumped down in his bed.

    Adam’s hope of finding his little brother in a better mood was, predictably, destined for defeat.  While Joe listened quietly to the reading of Ivanhoe, it was obvious that his attitude remained exactly what it had been that morning, and as the visiting hours drew to a close, Adam again had to fend off a plea to go with him.  “You sure don’t give up easy, do you?” he said with exasperated respect.  With a hand resting on Joe’s head, he adopted a soothing tone.  “I know it’s hard, buddy, but you need time to recover from an operation as serious as the one you had.”

    “I know,” Joe conceded, “but you can take better care of me than these people, Adam, and I won’t give you any trouble, I promise!”

    Adam laughed.  “That’ll be the day!”  He took a breath and continued, his expression now serious.  “Joe, I want you to quit begging me to take you out of this hospital.  It hurts me to hear it, and it hurts me to say no repeatedly, but I have to do what I believe is best for you, whether you like it or not.”

    Joe flopped back on the pillow and refused to acknowledge Adam, even when his older brother said good-bye for the day.  Joe was upset, especially since he knew there was no point in arguing with Adam, who had always been the hardest-headed, hardest-to-sway Cartwright on the Ponderosa.  Little Joe had been able to wrap Hoss around his little finger from the time he began to toddle, and even Pa had a soft spot in his heart for the wheedling of his youngest son.  Adam, on the other hand, could always be counted on to stand like granite once he made a decision.  That solidity comforted Joe when Adam was on his side, but when they were at odds, it infuriated him and frequently drove Joe to take matters into his own hands.

    That was what happened that night.  After hours of lying awake, trying to think of new ways to convince Adam that he really was well enough to leave the hospital, Joe gave it up as a futile effort.  If he wanted out, he would have to get out on his own.  Years of experience in sneaking out of his room at home convinced Joe that he could do the same here, even if the surroundings were unfamiliar.  He knew the hotel was only a few blocks away, for he’d seen the hospital when he’d strolled around town that first day in Philadelphia.  Walking those few blocks might be rough, given the way he felt, but once he showed up, Adam would have to take him in.  Away from this place, Joe was sure he’d have a better chance of convincing his brother that he didn’t need to come back.  Why, the walk itself would prove that!

    When the Chief Nurse made her customary check before retiring for the night at ten o’clock, Little Joe feigned sleep.  His plan would fall apart at the first step if he were to be sedated, but he’d had plenty of practice in fooling Pa into thinking he was fast asleep, and tricking Miss Irwin was far less a challenge.  With all lights extinguished, by regulation, the long room grew dark, but Joe waited another half hour, as best he could judge the time, before he rolled to one side and pushed himself up with both hands.  His breath hitched in sharply as pain assaulted his side, but after he’d stood still for a couple of minutes the soreness subsided.  Reaching for the rail at the foot of his bed, Joe took a step, and then slowly moved along the row of beds, using the foot rail of each one for support.

    He came to the last bed and took a deep breath to inspire his courage, for the door suddenly seemed miles away, with nothing to give him support on the journey.  Releasing the bed rail, he walked toward the exit with determined, though wobbly, steps.  Weak as a kitten, Hoss would say; that’s what layin’ in bed all day will do for you, Joe told himself.  He opened the door, narrowly, and slipped into the dimly lighted hallway, immediately leaning against the wall to rest from the effort.  He scowled as he looked down and noticed his nightshirt.  Not exactly the proper attire for a public street, but he consoled himself with the thought that it was dark out and more than likely no one would see him—at least, until he reached the lobby of the Washington Hotel.

    Refusing to cross that bridge until he came to it, Joe pressed one hand against the wall as he began walking down the hallway toward the stairs, another bridge he’d have to cross if he were to get to Adam.  He had almost reached that bridge when he came face to face with the night watchman, whose job it was to walk the halls and check each ward during the hours when the regular hospital staff was sleeping.  “Where do you think you’re going, boy?” the short, but hefty man demanded, for Joe’s attire was a dead giveaway to his status in this hospital.

    “Just . . . out,” Joe said, trying to move past the man.

    “I don’t think so, son,” the watchman said, placing a solid hand on each of the boy’s shoulders.

    “Let me go,” Joe cried, trying to shift out of the man’s grasp.  He gasped at the stitch of pain the movement provoked.

    “Come on, now, back to your bed,” the man urged.  “Which ward did you come from?”

    When Joe refused to answer and still continued to struggle for release, the man took tight hold of Joe’s biceps and steered him toward the Chief Nurse’s desk, reaching behind it to pull a cord that would ring a bell downstairs to summon help.  Soon footsteps clattered up the stairs and Joe found himself surrounded by people determined to block his efforts to escape.  In addition to the watchman, a man Pa’s age grabbed hold of Joe, who continued to twist and turn, trying to break free.

    “Stop that!” Miss Frances Irwin ordered as she looped the sash of her robe.  “Stop struggling at once, young man!  Do you wish to break open your surgical stitches?”

    “Let me go!” Joe shouted.

    “Is it the surgical ward he belongs on, then?” the night watchman asked.

    “Yes,” Miss Irwin replied, “the fourth bed.  Please return him there, Mr. Jamison.”

    “Right away, ma’am.”  The burly man, with the assistance of the second orderly, began wrestling Joe back toward the ward.

    Dr. Whittaker bounded up the stairs, face red with fury at the scene.  “Get him into bed—but carefully.”  With Miss Irwin close behind him, he followed the men into the ward and watched as Joe was forcibly laid on his bed.

    Joe immediately tried to get up again, but again hands held him down.  “Let me go!” Joe yelled.

    “Lie still and be quiet,” Dr. Whittaker hissed, and when Joe did neither, the resident turned to Miss Irwin.  “I want this patient put in restraints—and you’d better administer a sedative.  We can’t allow this commotion to disturb our other patients.”  Heads were already being raised in nearby beds.

    “I’ll see to it immediately, doctor,” the nurse said, leaving the ward.

    As the restraints were fastened to his wrists, Joe collapsed in exhaustion.  “No, don’t do that,” he begged.  “Please, no.”

    “You brought this on yourself, young man,” Dr. Whittaker stated sternly.

    The older orderly grunted in disapproval.  “Count your blessings, boy.  Back when I was a patient here, long years ago, they had harder ways of dealing with rule-breakers like you than just tying them down and putting them to sleep.”  He shot a fierce look at the resident.  “Maybe a nice cold shower would take the fire out of him, doctor.  I’ve seen it work wonders.”

    Dr. Whittaker waved the suggestion aside.  “That day is past.”

    Miss Irwin returned, hypodermic syringe in hand.  The restraints made it impossible for Joe to resist, and the sedative soon sent him into the oblivion of sleep.

    Adam arrived on the second floor slightly before eleven o’clock, hoping Miss Irwin would not hold him to the exact minute.  Since she was not at her desk to object, he simply walked in.  As he approached the fourth bed, however, he was shocked to find his brother in restraints, as he had been when first brought to the hospital.  “What’s this about?” he asked.

    Joe raised pleading eyes to his brother’s face.  “Adam, help me, please,” he whispered weakly.

    With a nod Adam at once unfastened the straps and began to rub the wrists chafed by pulling against the leather.  “Tell me what happened, Joe.”

    Little Joe nibbled at his lower lip.  “I—I just wanted to be with you; I was coming to you.”

    Adam’s head jerked up abruptly.  “Are you telling me you tried to leave this hospital?”  When Joe turned away, unable to meet his eyes, he took hold of Joe’s chin and pulled his face around.  “Answer me at once!”

    Joe nodded, eyes flicking nervously from side to side.  “Yes.”

    “Yes, you tried to leave?”  Unable to believe that even Joe would do something that unbelievably stupid, Adam demanded confirmation.

    “I just wanted to be with you,” Joe said again, the words a plea for understanding.  “Please don’t be mad.”

    Though horrified, Adam forced his voice to sound calm.  “I’m not angry, Joe, but that was very foolish.  I’m not surprised they put you in restraints after a stunt like that.  You could have seriously injured yourself and, therefore, obviously needed protection.”

    As tears started to form in his younger brother’s eyes, Adam felt a vise tighten around his heart.  If Joe was this miserable here, it was time to take his complaints seriously.  It was obvious from looking at the boy’s drawn face that he was no longer improving, and more behavior of this sort would have him spiraling downhill fast.  “Joe, I’ll speak with the doctor as soon as I can about when you can leave the hospital.”

    For the first time since he had entered the institution, Joe’s eyes lighted with hope.

    Adam pointed an authoritative finger at his brother’s nose.  “But you have to promise me you won’t cause any further problems—no more attempts to escape, whatever the result of that meeting.”

    Joe grimaced.  “Wouldn’t do any good to try,” he muttered glumly.

    Having seen Joe squirm around straight answers before, Adam cleared his throat.  “That is not a promise, and I am not leaving here until I get one.”

    “I promise,” Joe agreed with obvious reluctance, “but get me out of here, Adam—please.”

    “It may be this afternoon before I catch Dr. Morton, so don’t worry if I’m later than usual,” Adam admonished.

    “Okay, but you will come?”

    “Of course, I will,” Adam assured him.  “That’s a promise, little brother.”

    Joe willingly let his brother leave, and when Adam walked out, he saw Miss Irwin at her desk.

    “Mr. Cartwright,” the Chief Nurse said, rising.  “I didn’t realize you were here.”

    “I arrived somewhat early,” Adam explained.  “Had you been here, I would have requested permission before entering the ward.”

“I was hoping to speak with you before you visited your brother,” the nurse said.  “I presume you’ve seen the restraints.  There was an incident last night.”

    “Joe told me,” Adam said, not wanting to waste time on needless repetition, “and I appreciate his being prevented from leaving the hospital last night.  I would like to discuss his case with Dr. Morton, however, if you can tell me where to find him.”

    “Dr. Morton is not in the hospital today,” Miss Irwin stated.  “Dr. Whittaker is in charge of your brother’s case for now, but I’m afraid he was called away, as well, though he is expected by one o’clock.”

    “I’ll return at one, then,” Adam said and walked back into the ward.

    “I thought you were gonna see the doc,” Joe said.

    “He’s not here right now, so I thought I’d spend a little more time with you,” Adam said, taking a chair.  Looking carefully at his brother, he noticed the boy’s evident exhaustion.  “Did you get any sleep last night?”

    “Some,” Joe said.  “They stuck a needle in me.”

    Adam nodded.  “You still look tired to me, so I want you to close your eyes and try to rest.”

    Joe didn’t argue, whether because he was too tired or because he wanted to present a picture of how obedient he would be under his older brother’s care, Adam couldn’t tell.  It didn’t really matter, he decided, as he began to sing softly, so long as Joe slept.

    Leaving his brother asleep, Adam went to the hotel at noon and mulled over the situation while he waited for his dinner order to arrive.  He shook his head with an ironic smile as he realized that this was the day his letter would arrive at the Ponderosa, carrying the promise of a telegram to follow the same day.  Yesterday he would have simply informed his father that all was going well, but now he scarcely knew what to put in that message.  He really needed to speak with the doctor first, but he might not have time to do that, get a wire sent and return to Joe by two o’clock.  Today, of all days, he didn’t dare be late.  Even though he had warned Joe that he might be delayed, Adam felt he couldn’t trust the kid not to panic if he didn’t show up on time.

    He finally decided to send a wire, reporting that Joe was continuing to improve and that he would be speaking to the doctor that afternoon about his release from the hospital.  Not the full truth, of course, but not a bald-faced lie, either.  Joe had been improving and probably would continue to do so, once this problem was resolved.  Maybe all the kid needed was a definite time limit to his hospital stay.  Adam grimaced.  More likely, that was an overly optimistic view of the prospects ahead of him, one of which might well be the necessity of sending a second telegram, contradicting everything he’d said in the first.  What hide he had left after Pa got through flailing him for the contents of the original letter would probably be ripped off once Pa learned that his eldest son had misled him about Joe’s situation.

    The more Adam considered the matter, however, the more convinced he became that while the operation had, without doubt, saved Joe’s life, staying in the hospital had become a positive hindrance to his further progress.  Adam planned to argue strongly for the boy’s early release, and he felt confident in his ability to make the case.  After all, on other occasions he’d acted as advocate for Joe before a much tougher tribunal, that of Judge Benjamin Cartwright.   His dinner arrived, but Adam scarcely noticed what he was eating, while he wondered who would act as his advocate before that seat of justice when Pa finally got a full report of all that had gone on here in Philadelphia.  As he ate, Adam formulated his own defense, ending with his closing argument.  And, Pa, if I am ever again so foolish as to boast that I can handle that boy, you have my personal permission to plant your boot in my backside!

    Hoss was whistling as he came through the front door of the Ponderosa ranch house.  Sitting at his desk, Ben smiled at the sound and called out, “You sound cheerful.”

    Hoss turned the corner of the alcove to grin broadly at his father.  “You will be, too, when you see what I brung back from town.”  He took an envelope from his vest pocket and held it out.

    Ben came around the desk to take the unopened letter and read its return address.  “That Joseph,” he complained.  “I specifically told him to write, but I get almost two letters from Adam to every one from that rascal.”

    Hoss shrugged.  “Aw, Pa, you know that youngun ain’t much for letter writin’, any more than I ever been.”

    Ben arched a dark eyebrow, flecked with silver strands, at his middle son.  “You could both take a lesson from your older brother, but I frankly expected Adam to see to it that I heard from my youngest son, as well.”

    “Maybe Joe put a note in with Adam’s letter,” Hoss suggested.

    “Yeah,” an unconvinced Ben grunted.  He reached behind him to take a letter opener from the desk and slit the envelope.  Drawing out the single sheet of stationery, he read it, front and back, color washing from his face.

    Hoss’s broad brow creased with concern.  “What is it, Pa?  Bad news?”

    Ben wordlessly handed the letter to Hoss and headed for the stairs.

    Hoss looked down at the sheet in his hand and began to read, furrows in his forehead deepening.  When he came to the end, he folded the letter, laid it down on his father’s desk and climbed to the second floor.  Instinctively, he aimed for his father’s room at the end of the hall, not in the least surprised to see the open carpetbag sitting on the bed.

    “‘Trust me, Pa’ he says—when he’s kept back things he knew I would want to know immediately,” Ben was ranting as he stuffed a shirt into the valise.

    Hoss’s face scrunched up, almost as if he were the one getting the tongue-lashing, instead of his absent older brother, for whom it was obviously intended.  “Pa?”

    “Wants to spare me the trip, does he?” Ben continued to fume.  “As if I’d stay here when my boy needs me!”

    “Pa,” Hoss said more insistently.

    Ben’s head jerked in his son’s direction.  “What?” he snapped.

    Hoss tried to act innocently curious.  “Where you goin’, Pa?”

    Ben glared at his middle son, defying him to continue the act.  “Where do you think?”

    Hoss leaned against the doorjamb.  “Offhand, I’d say Philadelphia, and to be honest, I feel like packin’ up myself and headin’ there to bring that youngun home, where I can look after him proper, but I ain’t so sure it’s the right thing to do, Pa, for me nor you, either.”

    “Did I ask your opinion?” Ben demanded as he turned to take underwear and socks from his bureau drawer.

    Hoss gulped, for while he had probably drawn his father’s ire less frequently than either of his brothers, he was always more immediately affected by it than they were.  “No, sir,” he said, voice apologetic and firm at the same time, “but I’d sure appreciate it if you’d hear me out.”

    Ben took a deep breath, reminding himself that it wasn’t—and almost never was—this son with whom he had a grievance.  “You want to defend your brother, I presume.”  He couldn’t keep the cynicism from his voice.

    Hoss came closer, circling the massive mahogany bedpost with his beefy hands.  “Pa, it ain’t a matter of defendin’ Adam.  For all I know, he might’ve made the wrong decision.  Fact is, he says he’s made some wrong decisions, not done right by Joe and all.  Likely, he’s bein’ too hard on hisself, like only Adam can be, but you can tell just from the letter that Adam’s feelin’ some powerful guilt, and I think you’d best let him work it out his own way.”

    Ben sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at his eldest son’s advocate.  “Hoss, that would be fine if Adam were the only son involved here, but he isn’t.  Joseph is ill; he needs me and has no doubt needed me for almost a week now, and I will not overlook his need, just to assuage Adam’s guilty conscience.”

    Hoss nodded his agreement.  “No, sir, I wouldn’t want you to, but if Joe really is doin’ good, he mightn’t need you, after all, not by now.”

    Ben shook his head.  “We don’t know that.”

    Hoss reached over to lay a hand on his father’s slumped shoulder.  “We don’t know anything different, either.  Adam says he’s gonna be telegraphin’ this afternoon.  Maybe you oughta see how Joe’s doin’ before you traipse all that way back east and go interferin’ in the best chance them two’ll ever have to come together.  Adam’s right, Pa.  The minute you show up, Joe’ll cozy right up to you, and Adam won’t have no more chance to make things right.”

    Ben ran his hand raggedly through his thick silver mane.  “I suppose we could ride in and see what that telegram says.”  Seeing Hoss’s wide-mouthed grin, he added firmly, “However, I fully intend to be packed and ready to take the next train east if Joseph is not on the road to recovery.”

    Hoss nodded, realizing he would get no further concession from his father.  Though tempted to pack a bag himself, he decided to trust his older brother.  After all, Adam had said he’d send word if Little Joe was the least bit worse and there hadn’t been any message like that, so Hoss refused to believe that his baby brother was doing anything except getting better by the day. Probably naggin’ ole Adam to let him bust a bronc by now, Hoss grinned to himself, but then he remembered that there weren’t any broncs in Philadelphia.  No matter.  Joe would be naggin’ to do something he wasn’t up to yet, and Adam would be makin’ him toe the line, Hoss was certain.  He knew both those brothers of his pretty well.

    He knew his pa, too, so he knew that he didn’t have time to squander in this kind of speculation.  He had to saddle two fresh mounts, quick as he could, ‘cause Pa wouldn’t let the fuse of daylight burn short before riding into town to check on that telegram.

    After sending a carefully worded wire, designed to relieve concern without revealing anything specific, Adam returned to the hospital about 1 p.m. and rapped on the door he had been told led to Dr. Whittaker’s office.  The resident answered the door and ushered Adam inside.  “Come in, Mr. Cartwright.  I was hoping for a chance to speak with you today.  I understand you removed your brother’s restraints this morning.”

    Adam took the seat the doctor indicated.  “I certainly did.  They’re no longer needed.”

    Dr. Whittaker walked behind his desk and sat down.  “That is a matter of opinion, sir.  They were definitely needed last night.”

    “I agree, and I thank you for preventing him from leaving the hospital then.”  Adam pursed his lips, wishing that he were presenting his case to the older, more understanding Dr. Morton, rather than this slightly pompous young resident.  “However, he’s settled down now, and I don’t believe you’ll have any further problem with him.”

    “No, we won’t,” Dr. Whittaker said with a cool cock of his head, “because I ordered the restraints reapplied.”

    Adam’s face flushed with anger, but he pushed his outrage aside, not wanting personal feelings to cloud the real issue he had come to discuss.  “That isn’t what I wanted to speak with you about.  I’d appreciate an evaluation of my brother’s current condition.”

    Dr. Whittaker settled back in his chair, relieved to see that the older Cartwright brother, at least, was a reasonable man.  “Certainly.  Prior to last night’s incident, he was recovering well—no signs of infection, incision healing nicely.  It’s most fortunate that he did not pull loose any stitches in last night’s escapade, but his behavior as of this morning was most uncooperative.  He refused his breakfast entirely and tried as best he could, given the restraints, to frustrate my examination.”

    Knowing his younger brother, Adam had no doubt that Joe’s behavior had been exactly as the doctor reported.  “He was angry then,” he offered as explanation.  “As I said, he’s settled down now.  What I specifically want to know is when you think he might be released from the hospital.”

    The resident spread his hands in an equivocal gesture.  “Oh, that would be for Dr. Morton to say definitively—a week, ten days, perhaps.”

    Adam leaned forward, his folded hands resting on the desk.  “Why not now?  It’s common for most patients to be treated at home, is it not?”

    Resting one elbow on the arm of his chair, Dr. Whittaker cupped his chin in his hand.  “Certainly, but as I recall, ‘home,’ in this instance, is Nevada.  I couldn’t countenance—and I’m certain Dr. Morton would not, either—a journey of that distance for a recovering surgical patient.  As for the medical resources available in such a remote area—”

    Adam held up a remonstrative hand.  “I didn’t mean ‘home’ in the literal sense.  I meant the hotel here in Philadelphia.”

    The doctor gripped both arms of his chair and bent forward to stare at the man he had, only moments before, considered reasonable.  “You can’t be serious.  That would require you to assume complete, twenty-four-hour supervision.”

    “As I am perfectly prepared to do.”

    With a supercilious smile, Dr. Whittaker asked, “And perfectly qualified to do?”

    Adam responded with a brusque nod.  “Yes, I believe so.”  He added with a significant arch of his black eyebrow, “I certainly am capable of controlling the boy without tying him to a bed!”

    “An action you thanked me for moments ago,” the resident pointed out bluntly.

    Adam took a deep breath.  “Yes, and still thank you for.  Look, Dr. Whittaker, I have no complaint about the care my brother has received here.  He, on the other hand, has been upset about it from the beginning, as you know.”  He went on to detail Joe’s complaints: not being allowed to sleep, poor food, seeing other patients used as attendants and being “gawked at” by medical students.

    Dr. Whittaker interrupted to declare testily, “You agreed to that in the beginning, in the interests of scientific—”

    “Yes, I know,” Adam replied, trying to hold onto his temper, “and if I were the patient here, I would have no objection, but I’ve begun to question whether I had the right to agree to an invasion of his privacy.  He’s a very sensitive young man.”

    “I might choose the word ‘spoiled,’ rather than ‘sensitive.’  Of course, if you insist on mollycoddling the lad, giving in to his every whim—”

    “Call it what you will,” Adam interrupted tersely, suddenly understanding how his father must have felt all the times his oldest son had made similar accusations about spoiling his youngest.  He took another deep breath, seeking self-control.  “I have no doubt that the operation you advised saved my brother’s life, Dr. Whittaker.  For that I will be eternally grateful, but I have concluded that his disturbance with these conditions has become an actual hindrance to his recovery.  I lay no blame on this institution or anyone connected with it.  I’m certain the patients here receive the best medical care available in America.  I am equally certain, however, that this particular patient will progress more rapidly under the care of his family—in this case, me—and I want to arrange his discharge from the hospital as soon as possible.”

    The resident stood, bracing his hands on the desktop.  “Mr. Cartwright, it really is important that we see this case through from beginning to end, in order to provide complete documentation of the surgical procedure and its resolution.”

    “Important to whom, to my brother or to others who might derive some future benefit?” Adam asked pertinently.

    Dr. Whittaker straightened up to look with severity at the other man.  “The latter is of paramount importance to me.  Without full documentation, this operation might just as well never have been performed, in regards to its value in furthering medical knowledge.”

    “That, sir, is where we differ,” Adam asserted, coming to his feet.  “It is my brother’s well being that is of paramount importance to me.  Now, will you discharge him?”

    The doctor shook his head firmly.  “I can’t agree to that.  You’ll have to speak with Dr. Morton.  Unfortunately, he is out of town for the next several days.”

    “Joe can’t wait that long,” Adam stated.  “He’s not sleeping; he’s not eating; he’s in a state of emotional exhaustion, and none of that will change until he is away from here.”

    The resident folded his arms and stared into his opponent’s eyes.  “I will not discharge him.  If you choose to remove your brother from this institution, sir, it will be against medical advice.  I would think carefully about that, Mr. Cartwright, for I could not guarantee that the board of managers would agree to his re-admittance here, should you leave under those circumstances.”

    With his head cocked thoughtfully, Adam gave the doctor a curt nod.  “I will take that into consideration, and I will think the entire situation over before I take any action, but if I decide that it is in my brother’s best interest, I will not hesitate to remove him, with or without medical consent.”

    Dr. Whittaker moved around the desk and opened the door.  “In that case, I believe we have nothing more to discuss, Mr. Cartwright!”

    The door slammed shut on Adam’s heels.  My, that went well! he concluded, taking out his watch to check the time.  Still not two o’clock, but Adam decided to bank on Miss Irwin’s kindness and try to see Joe early.  Hurrying upstairs, he received the Chief Nurse’s permission to enter the ward and walked in quietly, in case Joe or others might be sleeping, but it took only a glance to determine that his brother was awake and agitatedly pulling on the straps tying his wrists to the bed.  Adam immediately unbuckled the restraints.  “I’m sorry, buddy.  I told the doctor this was unnecessary, and I hope they won’t do this to you again.”

    Joe’s chin began to quiver.  “Ain’t you gonna take me with you, Adam?  You promised.”

    “That is not what I promised,” Adam stated firmly.  “I said I would speak with your doctor and I did.  Dr. Whittaker is not willing to release you yet.  Dr. Morton is out of town, so I couldn’t talk to him, but I’m not sure his opinion would be any different.”

    Joe reached toward his brother with a shaky hand.  “Adam, I can’t—I—I—”

    Adam began a circular massage on the back of Joe’s hand.  “Shh, easy now.  Don’t get yourself worked up again.  Look, Joe, I want you with me.  I think that will be the best thing for you—and for me, too, but going against your doctors is a big step for me to take and I need to think it through.  Give me tonight, and I’ll give you an answer in the morning.”  Seeing tears well up in his brother’s expressive eyes, he gave the hand he was holding a firm squeeze.  “Joe, it’s going to be all right, one way or another.  Now, I want you to relax and try to make up some more of that sleep you lost last night.”

    “You’re not leaving now, are you?”

    Adam straightened the covers and put Joe’s hands beneath them.  “Yes, I am.  If I do take you with me, there are some preparations I need to make, some items I need to buy, etc.  I need some time this afternoon to do that, and you need to behave yourself and not make this situation worse than it has to be.  I was told you refused your breakfast.  Did you eat any of your dinner?”

    Joe shook his head, lips stubbornly set.  “They wouldn’t let me feed myself.”

    “Well, that won’t do, Joseph,” Adam dictated, summoning up that paternal authority again.  “I want you to make a serious attempt at eating everything on your supper plate, understood?”

    “I don’t like bein’ spoon-fed,” Joe said with puckered lips.

    “I’ll ask the nursing supervisor to leave the restraints off, at least for mealtime,” Adam offered, adding in a firmer voice, “but even if someone puts them back, so you can’t feed yourself, I expect you to eat.  Is that clear?”

    Joe nodded.  “I’ll try, but the food’s—”

    “Terrible.  I know.  Try, Joe.”

    Seeing the concern reflected in his brother’s soulful eyes, Joe murmured a submissive, “Yes, sir.”

    Adam smiled, bending close to his brother’s face.  “See you tomorrow, buddy.  Keep cheerful thoughts.”  He picked up the volume of Ivanhoe.  “I’ll just take this with me, okay?”

    Joe smiled weakly, grabbing on to the gesture almost as a promise that he wouldn’t be here for another reading.

    Adam returned to the hotel and stretched out on the bed, arms folded behind his head as he deliberated his decision, awed by the responsibility he would be assuming.  Awed, but not daunted.  After all, he’d cared for Little Joe, as well as the rest of his family, many times throughout his life, and he felt quite confident that he knew what to do.  In fact, thanks to his perusal of Florence Nightingale’s Notes on Nursing, he felt better prepared than he had ever been before.  In addition, Joe appeared to be out of danger and simply in need of rest and recuperation.

    Still, what if that evaluation were wrong?  What if Joe did require further medical attention?  Where could he turn if he alienated the doctors of Pennsylvania Hospital?  Yet to leave the boy in the hospital would mean a steady decline.  Of that, Adam was absolutely positive, and if he accepted that, then none of the other factors he had been weighing mattered one whittle.  He had to do what he believed in his heart was right, and what he believed in his heart was right was to bring his baby brother back under his personal care, not leave him in the hands of strangers, to whom Joe was little more than an interesting case.

    “Coming in now, Mr. Cartwright.”

    Ben moved quickly to the counter inside the Western Union office.

    The telegrapher scribbled on a pad and then tapped the key to acknowledge reception of the message before tearing off the top sheet and handing it to Ben.

    Ben grabbed the paper and with Hoss peering over his shoulder read the handful of words.  He exhaled with relief.  He felt like he’d been holding his breath for the last hour, since arriving at the telegraph office after a disturbing consultation with Dr. Martin, who had apprised him of just how dangerous an illness perityphlitis was.

    “See, he’s doin’ good, Pa, gettin’ out of the hospital tomorrow,” Hoss said, face bright as sunrise over Lake Tahoe.

    “It only says he might get out tomorrow, son,” Ben corrected.

    “Yeah, but they wouldn’t even be thinkin’ about it if’n Joe wasn’t better.”

    “I suppose,” Ben conceded.

    “Any answer, Mr. Cartwright?” the telegrapher inquired.

    Ben cocked his head in consideration.  “No, no response,” he said.  Turning, he walked out onto the porch of the telegraph office.

    Hoss followed, mouth puckered as if he’d eaten a sour lemon.  “Ain’t you gonna wire Adam back, Pa, let him know if’n you’re comin’ or stayin’?”

    With an arched eyebrow, Ben surveyed Hoss with cool gaze.  “No, I’m not,” he said plainly.  “I think your older brother deserves a taste of his own medicine.”  Let that cunning scalawag see what it’s like to wait a week for a message he’s concerned about!

    Hoss grimaced, trying to gauge how far he could go in defense of his brother without earning a tongue-lashing himself.  “Kind of looks like you packed them bags for nothin’, huh, Pa?” he suggested tentatively.  “I mean, there ain’t no need for you to go back East now, with Joe doin’ so good, and it’s gonna do them two a world of good, bein’ thrown together and havin’ to depend on each other.”

    Ben cast a sidewise glance at his middle son.  “Rather a one-sided dependence, Hoss.”

    “No, it ain’t, Pa,” Hoss argued, unwinding Chub’s reins from the hitching post and twisting them through his fingers.  “Adam had himself a good scare, and I figure he’s already learnin’ just how much he needs his little brother, too.”

    Ben gripped the horn of his saddle and looked across Buck’s back at his son.  “Hoss, it goes against every grain of my being not to be at my boy’s side right now.”

    “Yes, sir, I know,” Hoss said with sympathy, feeling much the same way himself, “but if you do, you’re gonna cause your other son a heap of hurt, maybe the two of ‘em, even.  Let ‘em work it out, Pa.  They need each other, and if you give ‘em time, they’re both gonna see it.”

    “Yeah, maybe,” Ben muttered and swung into the saddle.  He kept the conversation to ranch business as he and Hoss rode back to the Ponderosa, but the first thing he did on arriving was to sit down at his desk to write two letters, a scathing epistle to his eldest son and one full of tender love to his youngest.

    Arms loaded, Adam opened the door to his suite at the Washington Hotel and juggled packages all the way to Joe’s room, where he dumped them on the bed.  As soon as he’d made his decision to bring the boy here, Adam had made a mental list of things he would need and gone shopping.  Since Joe would be spending more time in bed than he had anticipated when packing his bags back home, he would need some extra nightshirts, so that had been Adam’s first purchase.  For the same reason he’d stopped in at the bookstore and bought a copy of one of the dreaded dime novels, which had come out only two days before.  He had a feeling that if Joe did do any reading on his own, something that required little concentration would be the right choice, and Prentiss Ingraham’s The Masked Spy; or, The Wild Rider of the Hills looked like the kind of story that might appeal to his younger brother’s adventurous nature, now that he was well enough to handle a little excitement.  He had also picked up an inexpensive checkerboard and pieces, since Joe enjoyed playing the game and checkers also constituted quiet entertainment.  Adam’s final stop had been Fred Brown’s Drugstore, just two blocks from the hotel, where he had purchased a bedpan, in the likely case that Joe wasn’t yet up to walking down the hall to the water closet, and some sedative powders, should the boy have difficulty sleeping.

    Adam sat down on the bed and wiped sweat from his forehead.  Though the window was open, the air was stifling, the heat unrelenting.  He didn’t see how a person confined to bed could be anything but miserable in an oven like this, but it was no worse here than at the hospital.  There wasn’t, in fact, any place in this forest of tall buildings to find respite from the wave of heat that had descended on Philadelphia that summer.  The only area where a cool breeze might occasionally be found was out at Fairmount Park.

    Adam raised his head and stroked his jaw in consideration.  With the mining convention concluded and most of their sightseeing done, there wasn’t anything tying them to a downtown residence.  Across the street from the Exhibition, a number of hotels had been constructed, specifically for Centennial guests, but Adam had early dismissed the idea of staying in one of them because, being new, they charged a higher rent than older hotels like the Washington.  Now, however, the extra money seemed unimportant.  If Joe would be more comfortable, why not make the change?

    Taking only enough time to splash himself with cold water and change his damp shirt for a fresh one, Adam caught a horse car out to the area along Belmont Avenue that was lined with hotels.  He dismissed the Grand Exposition Hotel out of hand, for it was a fifteen-minute walk from the Centennial grounds, and Adam thought that as his brother began to regain strength, he might enjoy short excursions to the Exhibition.  The United States Hotel was convenient for that purpose, but set back far enough to avoid some of the noise of Elm and Belmont avenues.  Though Adam considered it briefly, it was smaller than the other hotels and featured fewer amenities.  Wanting to provide Little Joe with the best room available, Adam continued to look.

    The Globe Hotel was the largest and offered some fine features, including the ability to summon servants with the ring of an electric bell.  However, it sat right next to the Centennial depot of the Pennsylvania Railroad, and Adam was concerned that trains arriving in the night might disturb his brother’s sleep.  Across the street was the Transcontinental Hotel, and when Adam toured it, he thought it would suit the needs of the Cartwright brothers perfectly.  Only half the size of the Globe, it still offered five hundred rooms.  Miss Nightingale’s book had stated that the sick suffered from movement in a room above them and advised always placing invalids on the top floor, so since the elevator made all the floors equally convenient, Adam inquired whether there was a suite available on the fifth.  Learning that there was, he asked to see it.

    He was thoroughly pleased with the suite.  Triangular in shape, the Transcontinental Hotel surrounded a spacious courtyard on three sides, making each room light and airy.  Miss Nightingale would definitely approve, Adam thought, grinning at the placement of the bed in the lightest part of the room with a good view out the window and close enough to it to provide some relief from the heat.  The parlor opened onto a small balcony overlooking a garden in full bloom, a pleasant place for Joe to take his first steps, once he was ambulatory.  And, in Adam’s mind, one of the finest features was the location of a bath in the suite itself, the very essence of convenience.

    Only one question remained to be answered before Adam was ready to make a final decision, and he investigated that by taking his supper in the hotel’s dining room.  The food was excellent and with a second restaurant also available on the premises, Adam was convinced that the quality and variety of the meals would tempt his little brother’s flagging appetite.  Immediately after finishing his supper, he registered at the hotel desk, sent a second short wire to Pa, apprising him of their new address and confirming, without further explanation, Joe’s release from the hospital the next day.  Then he caught the first streetcar back into the city to pack everything up and transport it to the new hotel.

    While he was packing, he found one item in Joe’s bottom bureau drawer that surprised him.  By its shape, it had to be a book, but it was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, so Adam couldn’t see what it was.  Something Joe didn’t want him to see, evidently, considering where he’d found it, but though Adam was curious, he decided to respect his brother’s privacy and just slipped the package into Joe’s carpetbag.

    Arriving at the Transcontinental Hotel, he unpacked and did all he could to insure Joe’s comfort in the new lodging.  Then, exhausted, he fell into his bed, in the room on the other side of the bathroom from the one where Joe would sleep.  Despite the comfort of the new mattress, however, Adam found sleep slow to take him.  He was bound to face opposition when he removed Joe from the hospital tomorrow morning, and while that didn’t bother him for his own sake, he wanted nothing to disturb his brother. Well, whatever happens, I’ll handle it, he assured himself, wincing as he realized that his father must have received his letter and subsequent telegram by now.  Wondering what Ben Cartwright thought of how his eldest son was handling things effectively kept sleep at a distance for another hour.

    Having spent a restless night, Adam awoke early Friday morning, so he took time for a long soak in the tub before shaving and dressing.  As he left his room, he gave the carved cherub a pat on the head.  “See you soon, little brother,” he promised.  The night before he’d considered putting the little statue in Joe’s new room, sort of a welcome-home gift, but he had decided the art object wouldn’t mean as much to Joe as it did to him, and he wasn’t willing to part with it unless it did.

    Though tired, Adam was in good spirits as he ate breakfast in the second restaurant available at the Transcontinental.  The food here was of equal quality with what he’d eaten the night before, so he felt confident that Little Joe would have no cause for complaint about his meals, even if it wasn’t quite the same as having Hop Sing around to tempt a capricious appetite with all his favorite foods.

    Glancing at his watch, Adam planned his strategy for the morning.  He would arrive at the hospital about nine o’clock to insure that Joe had had time to eat his own breakfast.  Despite his complaints about hospital food, it was still better for the boy to have something on his stomach before making the long trip out to Fairmount Park.  Adam planned to hire a carriage and have the driver take his time, and if Joe had already eaten, they could take all morning, if needed, and still arrive in time to have dinner here.

    With a little time to kill, he walked outside.  Though the Exposition wouldn’t open for another hour, people were beginning to line up at the entrance across Elm Avenue from the hotel.  Adam spotted a balloon vender, and a broad grin split his face.  Dodging around an oncoming streetcar, he hurried across the street and purchased a veritable bouquet of balloons, as bright as the flowers blooming in the courtyard of the Transcontinental.  He took them up to Joe’s room, tying four across the foot of his brother’s bed and one on each side at the head.  There was one left, so he looped its string through the towel bar of the washstand and stood back to survey his work.

    Everything appeared to be in order: bed covers turned down, fresh nightshirt laid out on the chair, Ivanhoe and the dime novel placed on the bedside table, bedpan tucked out of sight beneath the bed, curtains opened and window raised to let in fresh air and give the room a cheery appeal.  Passing into the parlor, he looked with satisfaction at the comfortable chaise, where Joe might spend daylight hours, rather than in bed; the overstuffed chairs and sofa, when he felt like sitting up; and the small round table, where they could take meals together in the suite.  All the comforts of home, except the loving hands of his family.  Well, mine with have to suffice.

    Adam picked up the small bundle he’d prepared the night before, containing a robe for Joe to wear on the brief journey to his new home and his balmorals.  Adam had, at first, put his brother’s slippers with the robe, but had reconsidered when he realized that Joe would have to walk from the hospital to the gatehouse to get to the waiting carriage.  Shoes built for the street would be better, he had concluded; they would give the boy firmer footing on paved streets and stone steps.  Tucking the bundle under his arm, Adam locked the door to the suite and moved toward the elevator.

    Half an hour later he walked into the men’s surgical ward, having encountered neither doctor nor nurse on the way in, and shook his head in dismay when he saw the restraints again fastened to his brother’s wrists.  Joe’s eyes were closed, so Adam stepped lightly to his side, hoping that his brother was sleeping.  The dark circles under his eyes declared that he needed to be, but when Adam gently unfastened the straps, Joe opened his eyes, looking pleased to see his older brother.  “You’re early,” Joe whispered.

    Adam rubbed his brother’s chafed wrists.  “I figured you’d want to get out of this place as soon as possible, little brother.”

    Joe’s face was radiant, his eyes suddenly alive again.  “You mean it?  You’re really taking me with you this time?”

    Adam nodded as he released his brother’s hand after giving it a final pat.  “Yes, I think it’s what’s best for you, but you are going to have to promise to do just as I say, Joe, or this arrangement won’t work.”

    “I promise, Adam,” Joe said eagerly.

    Adam chuckled.  “I’m gonna hold you to it, little brother,” he said, wondering how long it would be before he had to remind Joe of the promise he’d made much too easily.  He raised Joe up and held out the sleeve of the soft robe.  “Okay, let’s get you into this.  Then I’ll run down and hire a carriage and come back for you.”

    Little Joe folded his arms against his chest.  “I ain’t wearin’ that out on the street—not in broad daylight!”

    “No one’s going to see you,” Adam chided.  “You’re going straight from one bed to another, and getting dressed for the drive to the hotel is an affectation I don’t intend to indulge.”

    “Then I won’t go,” Joe declared with a stubborn set of his jaw.

    You obstinate little wretch, Adam fumed inwardly, though he schooled his face to reveal nothing.  Just because I gave in to you once, you think you’ve got the winning hand, but this is one bluff it will be easy to call.  “Of course, if you prefer to remain in the hospital . . .”

    Joe’s eyes began to shimmer and his chin to quiver.  “Why does everything always have to be your way?”

    As Joe turned away, a sledgehammer crushed Adam’s heart.  Joe’s question brought back the conversation he’d had with himself while his brother was in surgery, and Adam recalled the guilt he’d felt then for repeatedly forcing his will on Joe.  Here he was, doing it again, without giving the slightest consideration to Joe’s feelings.  Of course, he couldn’t always give in, not when it might affect his brother’s health, but this clothing issue really didn’t.  In fact, upsetting the boy needlessly was probably detrimental, more of the same kind of indifferent treatment he’d received at this hospital.  Adam leaned over and gently pulled his brother’s face back toward him.  “Okay, buddy,” he said softly.  “This time we’ll do it your way, but I’ll have to go back to the hotel to get your street clothes.  It’ll take awhile, but if it means enough to you to wait, I’ll do it.”

    Joe, of course, did not realize that Adam had changed hotels, so his calculation was based on how long it would take his brother to get to the Washington Hotel.  “Not long,” he said, eyes sparkling again, “and it’ll be worth it.  It’s embarrassing, Adam, folks seein’ me in my nightclothes.”

    “Longer than you think,” Adam said, though he didn’t explain, “but I’ll be back as soon as I can.  You behave yourself, and don’t tell anyone what we’re up to.”  His voice had dropped to a whisper for that final sentence.

    Joe grinned, feeling as though he and Adam were conspiring to stage a jailbreak.  There was no way the prisoner would tell his jailers about it ahead of time!

    As Adam trotted down the hospital steps and sprinted toward the streetcar stop, he began to question his sanity.  Surely a man with a solid grip on his senses wouldn’t have allowed even as artful a conniver as Little Joe to talk him into a pointless pair of pants to preserve his sudden and misplaced modesty!  Should’ve told him about the move, but I was hoping to surprise him.  Now he’ll worry, though, ‘cause it’s going to take over an hour to get there and back.  He stopped short and laughed at his own stupidity.  Why go all that distance?  Just buy the kid a shirt and trousers at a store downtown.  Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Adam began to whistle as he turned around and headed toward the corner of Eighth and Market, where the nearest dry goods store was located.  By the time he reached Strawbridge and Clothier, Adam was getting into the spirit of celebrating Joe’s “homecoming,” so he purchased a fancy gray silk dress shirt, complete with frills down the front and on the cuffs, and a pair of gray broadcloth trousers, along with a royal blue cravat for festive flair.

    Returning to the hospital, Adam was stopped this time by the Chief Nurse.  “Mr. Cartwright, you’re not permitted to visit until eleven,” Miss Irwin reminded him.  “The doctors are making their rounds now and must not be disturbed.”

    “I have no intention of disturbing them,” Adam said smoothly and sailed past her toward the ward.

    She frantically called his name, but Adam ignored her.  Entering the long room, he saw a covey of a dozen or so doctors and students surrounding his brother’s bed.  Though he looked extremely uncomfortable, Joe was not resisting the examination.  He was obviously relieved, however, when his older brother stormed in and pulled Dr. Whittaker aside with a firm grip on his elbow.

    “I told you how this boy felt about being put on public display,” Adam hissed.  “I assumed you understood that I wanted it to stop.”

    “You didn’t state that, Mr. Cartwright,” the resident replied so glibly that Adam felt like punching him in the jaw, but starting a brawl in the ward wouldn’t really help Joe.  In fact, knowing his younger brother, the kid would be out of that bed, trying to join the fracas.

“Well, it will stop, as of this minute,” Adam declared.  “I’m taking my brother out of the hospital at once.”

    Dr. Whittaker surveyed him with narrowed gaze.  “Mr. Cartwright, I beg you to reconsider—for his sake.”

    “Has his condition changed since we spoke yesterday?”

    “No material change,” the doctor conceded.  “In my opinion, however, his case still merits medical supervision.”

    Adam folded his arms and stood as unmovable as one of the marble sculptures at the Centennial.  “I weighed carefully our prior conversation, and I’ve made my decision.  He’s coming with me.”

    The doctor raised his voice.  “Then I repeat, in front of these witnesses, you do so against medical advice.  Should your brother’s condition deteriorate, the responsibility will be yours.”

    Adam favored him with a sardonic smile.  “‘Twas ever thus.”  When had he ever not been responsible for Little Joe, from the time that green-eyed infant had taken his first peek at the world?

    The doctor appeared puzzled, but he motioned to the others around the bed and continued on his rounds, shaking his head at the foolishness of the indulgent older brother’s giving in to the spoiled younger one.

    Joe gazed at his older brother with almost idolizing admiration.  “You were wonderful, Adam.”

    Adam chuckled.  “Hold that thought, little brother,” he advised.  “It just might make things go smoother over the next few weeks.”  He began to unwrap the package from Strawbridge and Clothier.  “Let’s get you dressed, and I don’t want to hear any complaint about the outfit I picked, understood?”

    “Sure, anything’s fine,” Joe said quickly.  He looked curiously at the elegant clothes Adam took from the brown wrapper.  “Hey, I didn’t mean for you to go out and buy me something new.  My old clothes would’ve been just fine.”

    Adam ran a hand through his brother’s tangled hair.  “It’s okay; it was more convenient to do this than to go all the way to the hotel.”

    Joe shook his head in bewilderment.  “It’s not that far to our hotel; in fact, it’s closer than here.”  He touched the tag tied with twine to the package, on which was printed the store’s name and address.

    Adam chuckled, wishing he could keep the secret, but realizing the time had come to reveal it.  “Well, I have another surprise for you, youngster.  I’ve moved us to a different hotel, one that I believe will be more comfortable for your recuperation.  It would have taken considerably longer to get there and back than to do a little shopping.”  He put his arm behind Joe and helped him sit up.

    Joe’s eyes shone with warm affection.  “Aw, Adam, you’re sure goin’ to a lot of trouble for me.”

    Adam rubbed the back of the boy’s neck.  “Not at all.  Now, can we get you dressed and out of this hospital?”

    Joe grinned.  “The sooner, the better, brother.”

    “Fine.  You just sit still and let me take care of everything,” Adam admonished as he began to unbutton Joe’s nightshirt.

    Little Joe offered no resistance as Adam dressed him, though he laughed when his brother knotted the cravat around his neck.  Sometimes he just couldn’t understand his older brother.  Thirty minutes ago he tried to put me on the street in my nightclothes, and now he wants me dressed fancy enough to turn any girl’s head!

    Adam took a comb from his pocket and ran it through Joe’s unruly curls.  “Well, that’ll have to do for now.”  He lightly clapped his younger brother on both shoulders.  “Ready to go, kid?”

    “I’m ready, Adam,” Joe said, pressing his hands against the mattress in an attempt to stand.

    “No!” Adam said sharply.  “Let me help you.”

    Joe nodded meekly, for the frisson of pain in his side had been sharp enough to make him realize how much he needed help.  Adam put his arm around his brother’s waist, lifted the boy to his feet and began moving toward the door, concerned at the strain he saw on Joe’s face, strain that contorted into dread as they approached the stairway.

    As Adam stood at the head of the stairs, wondering if he had made a mistake, Miss Irwin came to his side.  “Please don’t do this, Mr. Cartwright,” she implored, gazing at Joe with compassionate eyes.  “You can see how weak the young man is.  This is too much for him.  He needs proper nursing.”

    “He’ll get it,” Adam assured her.  For a moment, though, Adam hesitated as he took in the pallor of his brother’s face.  He cupped Joe’s chin in his hand.  “Are you going to be able to make it, boy?  We still have some distance to go, even after getting down these stairs.”

    “I can do it, Adam,” Joe insisted.  “Just take it slow and easy.”

    “All right,” Adam said.  He turned to Miss Irwin.  “Thank you for your concern and for the care you’ve given my brother while he’s been here, but we’ll be fine.”

With a shake of her head, Miss Irwin went back to her desk.

This is going to be hard, Adam admitted to himself as he looked down the lengthy staircase.  Again he put his arm around Joe.   “Lean heavy on me, buddy; let me do all the work.”

    Pale from the minor exertion he’d already made, Joe nodded without comment.  Resting his weight against his brother’s strong shoulder, he made his way, step by cautious step, to the first floor.

    Adam walked his brother down the hall, stopping at a bench near the front door, where he set the boy down.  “You stay here and I’ll flag down a carriage.”

    Joe reached a pleading hand toward his older brother.  “No, don’t leave me here, Adam.”

    Adam squatted in front of the boy, resting one hand on Joe’s right knee.  “Joe, it’ll be all right.  No one will bother you or try to force you back into that ward.”

    “I can make it, Adam,” Joe insisted.

    “No.  I will not have you standing out on that street, waiting,” Adam stated firmly.  “When I have transportation arranged, I’ll be back for you.”  He stood and pointed at the bench.  “Don’t you dare move from there,” he said, emphasizing each word.

    Joe nodded reluctantly, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall as Adam headed out the door.  After what seemed like only minutes, he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a voice calling his name.  He opened his eyes and saw Adam looking at him with concern.

    “You okay?” Adam asked.

    “Yeah,” Joe murmured.  “You find a carriage that quick?”

    Adam smiled wryly.  Though he hadn’t been gone an inordinately long time, he could easily see that a brief nap had distorted Joe’s awareness of the interval.  “Yeah, I have the carriage.”  He helped Joe to his feet and again urged the boy to lean on him as they descended the outside steps and made their way toward the gatehouse.  “Too bad they wouldn’t loan us that bed carriage,” Adam jibed.  “Would have made the trip easier.”

    “I like it better this way,” Joe said.

    “Oh, you would,” Adam snickered, “with me doing most of the work!”

    “Sorry,” Joe muttered.

    “It’s okay, buddy; we’re making it just fine.”

    They reached the covered carriage, and with the driver’s help Adam got his brother inside.  He’d already instructed the driver to take the journey slowly, but he reminded the man again just before climbing in and sitting beside Joe.  The driver followed instructions, keeping the horse to little more than a walk, but no amount of care could take all the bumps out of the road, and it was obvious to Adam that his brother was uncomfortable.  As he wiped beads of sweat from Joe’s forehead, Adam scolded himself for a choosing a hotel so far away.  True, it would be better for Joe once they got there, but he should have realized that the journey itself would be arduous for the boy.  As the wheels bounced in another low spot, Adam slipped his arm around Joe and pulled him tight to his side to steady him.

    Joe looked up, smiling weakly.  “I’m okay, Adam.”

    “Sure you are,” Adam said, sounding unconvinced.

    “How—how far is it?”

    “Clear out by the Exhibition grounds, I’m afraid,” Adam replied apologetically.

    “Oh.”  Joe nodded.  “That’ll be real convenient for you.”

    “Huh?”

    The carriage hit a deep dip, and Joe lurched forward with a cry.  Adam grabbed him and pulled him upright, the offhand remark forgotten in his concern for the boy’s safety.  He wrapped his arms around Joe, determined to absorb the inevitable jolts.  After hitting a few more rough spots, they arrived at their destination.  Adam got out of the carriage first and helped Joe down.  “Stand right here, Joe,” he dictated, “while I pay the driver.  Don’t move, boy.”

    Joe nodded and looked up the short flight of stairs to the hotel’s entrance, daunted.  While there were fewer steps than there had been at the hospital, climbing would be harder than going down had been, and Joe was completely content to wait until he had his brother’s strong arm to lean on.

    Adam returned quickly, putting that strong arm firmly around his brother’s slim waist.  “Lean heavy on me, Joe,” he said, as he had at the hospital.  “It’s just this one short flight of stairs to the entrance, and then we’ll take the elevator to the room.”

    “Oh, great, another rising room,” Joe groused.

    Adam squeezed the boy to his side.  “Would you really prefer more stairs at this point, little buddy?” he asked as they began their ascent.  “We’re on the fifth floor.”

    Pausing on the second step, Joe wrinkled his nose.  “No, I gotta admit a rising room sounds a lot better than that much climbing right now.”

    Chuckling, Adam helped him mount another step.  “Now, that’s a sensible attitude, my boy.”  He continued to help Joe climb, step by step, noticing how the slight effort seemed to enervate his brother.  They moved slowly across the lobby to the elevator and rode to the fifth floor.  Joe’s breath was noticeably shallow, though Adam couldn’t be sure whether that arose from his habitual unease with rising rooms or from sheer exhaustion or, most likely, from a combination of both.  Worry growing, Adam supported his brother down the hallway to their suite, unlocked the door and guided the boy in, seating him in the closest chair.

    Concerned, Adam knelt in front of Joe, looking up into the bowed face in an attempt to assess his condition.  “Buddy, you okay?”

    Joe dipped his chin, almost imperceptibly.  “Just tired, Adam.  I know I didn’t do anything, but . . .”

    “Yes, you did,” Adam murmured.  “More than you were up to, I’m afraid.”  He finally gave voice to the doubt that had been whittling at the edge of his mind.  “Maybe this was a mistake.”

    Joe lifted his head abruptly, revealing eyes brimming with anxiety.  “No!  No, I don’t wanna go back.”

    Adam placed a calming hand against his brother’s cheek.  “Of course not.  It’s the trip that tired you.  Going back would only compound the error.  I do think we should get you right into bed, though.”  His concern deepened when Joe nodded without argument, that departure from the norm signaling just how exhausted the boy was.

    Adam helped Joe to his feet and supported him for the short walk to the bedroom.  As they passed through the parlor, he spared a single sigh for his dashed hopes.  He had envisioned Joe’s favorable first impression of the luxurious new accommodations, but it was obvious the limp boy on his arm had not even noticed them.  Entering Joe’s bedroom, he eased his brother onto the side of the bed and knelt to remove his shoes.

    At first, Joe just sat quietly, letting Adam do whatever he deemed necessary.  Then, glancing up, he saw the balloons tied all around his bed and grinned.  “Aw, Adam.”

    As Adam stood, he saw the smile on his brother’s face and felt rewarded for his efforts in making the room festive.  “Welcome home, Joe—at least, your home away from home.”

    Joe turned to smile at his brother and whispered, “Thanks.”

    Nodding his acceptance, Adam unbuttoned his brother’s shirt and slipped it off.  Then he picked up the nightshirt he’d left lying on the chair near the bed.

    Joe noticed that the garment was new and asked about it.

    “Just thought you could use some extras,” Adam said with a shrug.

    Joe looked disturbed.  “I’m costing you a lot more than you planned on, aren’t I?”

    Adam gathered the hem of the garment toward the neck and placed it over Joe’s head, pulling it down over his shoulders and guiding his arms into the sleeves.  “Don’t worry about it.  Don’t worry about anything, all right?”  He swung his brother’s legs onto the mattress, easing his head onto the pillow, then removed his pants and pulled the covers up to his shoulders.  “I’m going to mix you a sedative,” he said, moving toward the bedside table.

    “No,” Joe said.

    Adam was momentarily relieved.  It was a good sign, he thought, that Joe felt like making even that feeble an objection to something he ordinarily hated.  Irritation followed, however, and he had to take a deep breath to control his temper.  “Joe, you promised me you would do as I said,” he reminded his brother.

    “I know, but I’m so tired, Adam,” Joe said, his lifeless tone adding impact to the words.

    Too tired to sleep?  That made no sense.  Adam paused a moment, trying to understand what his brother meant and was suddenly glad he hadn’t made the biting retort that had been his first instinct.  “You mean you think you can sleep without the medicine?” he asked.  “It would be better if you can, of course.”

    Joe yawned, closing his eyes.  “Yeah, I don’t think I need anything but this . . . nice . . . soft . . . pillow.”

    Adam caressed his brother’s curls with a tender hand.  “Okay.  I’ll check on you in about half an hour.  If you’re not asleep then, you will take the sedative without argument, understood?”

    “Uh-huh,” Joe muttered, voice trailing off.

    Adam left and when he returned thirty minutes later, he found his younger brother sound asleep.  Leaving the door open a crack, so that he could hear if Joe called, he went back into the parlor and threw himself down on the blue and gold brocade sofa, surprised at how tired he felt, especially since the day wasn’t half over.

    Later that morning Adam bolted upright, some sound having penetrated his light doze.  Glancing toward Joe’s room, he saw the door wide open and flew off the sofa.  “Hey, I’m over here,” he heard a soft voice say and turned to see his brother near the front door to their suite.

    “What do you think you’re doing?” Adam demanded tersely.  “Get back in bed this instant!”

    Joe’s suddenly crestfallen face was pitiful to behold.  “But I need the water closet, Adam,” he protested.  He took another determined step toward the front door, glancing over his shoulder.  “Is it to the right or the left?”

    Adam took his arm, intending to escort him back to bed and present him with the bedpan, but he realized that was putting the horse after the cart since Joe was already up.  “It’s not down the hall, Joe,” he explained, his angry countenance relaxing.  “It’s here in the suite.”

    Joe crinkled his nose quizzically.  “Funny place for it.”

    Adam chuckled.  “Unique, but highly convenient placement, I’d say.”  He aimed Joe toward their private bath.  “Go on, but be careful.  I’m here if you need me.”

    Joe looked appalled at the suggestion.  “I won’t.”

    As his brother disappeared into the bath, Adam perched nervously on the arm of the sofa.  He wanted to respect his brother’s privacy as much as possible, of course, but he was concerned about the boy’s evident weakness.  He smiled in relief when Joe came out, and he helped him back into bed.  “I’m going to check your stitches,” he stated in his best imitation of Pa’s no-argument voice.  “I have to be sure you didn’t harm yourself with this latest little stunt.”

Joe nodded his acquiescence and lay still as Adam examined his incision site.  “Looks fine,” Adam said, straightening up.  “Now, don’t get up again without calling for assistance,” he instructed firmly.  “I do not want you straining those stitches, so you let me help you.”

    “Okay, I’m sorry,” Joe said, looking contrite.  “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

    “That’s all right,” Adam said, adjusting his brother’s covers.  “I should have explained things like that to you when we first got here, but you were so tired I thought it was more important to get you into bed.  Now you know, though, and I’ll expect you to do as I’ve said.”

    Joe displayed his most disarming smile.  “I’ll be good.”

    Adam laughed at the phrase again resurrected from childhood.  “Oh, you think I’ll buy you another present for that promise, do you?”

    Joe sobered swiftly.  “No, Adam, you’ve done way too much already.  I-I guess Pa’ll help with the doctor and the hospital, though, huh?”

    “I’m sure he will,” Adam said at once, “but you are not to worry about money matters, Joe.  I don’t want you to concern yourself with anything except getting well.”

    Feeling protected, Joe smiled warmly.

    “It’s past noon,” Adam said, consulting his watch.  “I’m going to order you some dinner.  Anything particular you’d care for?”

    “I’m not hungry, Adam,” Joe said.

    Adam shook his head at the familiar words.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  Of course you are.”

    Joe’s mouth gaped in a drawn-out yawn.  “Can’t I eat later?  I’m awful tired, Adam.  I ain’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week, and this bed feels so good.”

    The reminder of one of Joe’s complaints about the hospital awakened Adam’s compassion.  “Okay, sleep awhile, but you will eat when you wake again, is that understood?”  He tapped Joe on the tip of his nose.

    “Yes, sir,” Joe replied with a faint grin.

    As the afternoon passed, Adam began to grow concerned about how long his younger brother was sleeping.   About five o’clock he decided to order room service and once he had placed their supper order, he roused Little Joe.  “I’m sorry to wake you, buddy, but you need to eat something.”

    Joe seemed groggy, but compliant.  “Okay, Adam.  I—uh—need the water closet again.”

    “Sure, kid,” Adam responded readily.  “I have a bedpan, if you’d prefer to use that or I can help you into the bathroom if you feel up to it.”

    “Rather go in there,” Joe said at once.

    Adam grinned.  Predictable, as always.  He helped Joe into the bath and when he exited, led him to the small table in the parlor.  “Dinner should be here soon,” he explained, “and you might as well sit here to eat it.”

    Joe brightened perceptibly.  “See?  I knew you’d take better care of me than any old doctor.”

    “Don’t squander your charm on me, you rascal,” Adam chuckled.  “I’m immune to it.”  Oh, if only I were!

    A few minutes later their supper was delivered in metal-covered dishes on a rolling cart.  Adam lifted the lid of one and placed it in front of his brother.  “I hope this will be to your liking.”

    Joe smiled at the plate of crumb-crusted, baked fish with parsley-flecked potatoes and peas in cream sauce on the side.  “It looks real good, Adam.”

    “Good.”  Adam sat down and uncovered his own plate, revealing roast beef with potatoes and carrots, accompanied by bacon-seasoned green beans.

    For a few minutes the brothers ate in silence.  Then Joe began to look around the room between bites.  “This is some place you picked for us, big brother,” he observed.  “Must cost a pretty penny.”

    Adam’s knife stopped in mid-slice of his roast beef.  “What did I say about worrying over expenses, hmm?” he asked, a slight rebuke in his tone.

    Though there was no food in his mouth, Joe swallowed before answering.  “Not to—and—and I won’t.”

    “Good.  That’s settled, then.”  Adam resumed cutting his meat.

    “It’s real close to the Exhibition, you said?” Joe recalled.

    “You didn’t see it when we arrived?”  Adam speared a carrot and then a bite of potato with his fork.  “It’s just across the street.  If this room were on the opposite side of the hall, you could see it out your window.”

    “That’ll make it easy for you,” Joe commented, taking a bite of the buttery fish.

    Adam raised his head.  “I don’t know what you mean, buddy.”

    Joe looked up.  “To see the Exhibition—without leaving me alone too long at a time, I mean.”

    Adam’s fork fell onto his plate with a clatter.  “Do you think for one minute that I would leave you here and traipse off to the Centennial?”

    Joe seemed surprised by his brother’s reaction.  “Well . . . sure.  I mean, I know the way they had those visiting hours set up made it hard for you to go while I was in the hospital, but it’ll be easier now that you’re so close.  That’s why you picked this hotel, isn’t it, ‘cause it’s close to the Centennial?”

    Adam gasped and then collected himself.  “Yes, in part, but not for the ridiculous reason you’ve come up with.”  He reached across the table to take his brother’s hand.  “Joe, I wanted to be close so it would be easier for you to visit the Exhibition once you started to feel better, not so I could go alone.  I have no intention of doing that.”

    Joe’s expressive eyes reflected distress.  “But, Adam, I don’t want you giving up anything else for me.  You’ve lost days already.”

    “Hush.”

“But, Adam . . .”

“Hush.  Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

    Joe pushed the plate away.  “I’m not hungry.”

    “You haven’t eaten half of it,” Adam scolded.

    “I’m tired,” Joe said.  “I want to go to bed.”

    Adam sighed, realizing it never did any good to urge food on Joe when he was upset.  “Okay.”  He pushed his plate aside and helped his brother back to bed.  “Joe, you are not to worry about anything so foolish as when—or even whether—I see the Exhibition,” he said firmly, concerned by the tenseness he saw in his brother’s slight frame.  When Joe turned away without saying anything, Adam gently rolled him to one side and began giving him a relaxing rubdown.  He slowly felt the taut muscles ease under his kneading fingers and heard his brother’s breathing slow down until it was obvious he was again asleep.

    Walking back into the parlor, Adam finished his now-cold supper and wheeled the cart into the hall.  Then he threw himself into the plush blue armchair and raked his fingers through his hair.  Probably be snow-white as Pa’s by the time I get through ‘handling that boy,’ he mused ruefully. That kid can sure come up with some crazy ideas.  How could he possibly have thought I’d abandon him and go out sightseeing?  Does he really think I’m that selfish and callous?  Well, maybe that’s understandable, since I did just that the day I left him at the Centennial Medical Department.  Yeah, maybe so, but I’m glad we got that straightened out the first day.  Now he can settle down and concentrate on getting well, knowing he has something to look forward to.

    He walked out onto the balcony, breathing in the pleasant fragrances wafting up from the garden and watched as the sky slowly darkened.  Though the hour was early, Adam felt exhausted and decided he would read a few minutes and turn in.  He didn’t even make it through one journal article, however, before his black eyelashes drooped on his olive cheek, so he undressed and, after making a last check on Little Joe, slid under the covers.

    He woke up, uncomfortable, in the middle of the night and got up to use the water closet.  When he finished, he decided to look in on his brother, to make sure he was sleeping soundly.  As he neared the door, however, he heard soft sobs coming from the room.  Immediately alarmed, he hastened in and saw Joe, turned on his left side, face buried in the pillow to muffle the sound.  “Joe, what’s wrong?”

    “Nothin’,” Joe mumbled, the word barely audible in the recesses of the pillow.

    Adam took a deep breath, to calm his racing heart, and laid a hand on Joe’s right shoulder.  “Joe, if this is going to work, you have to be completely honest with me.  If there’s a problem . . .”

    Joe raised his head.  “There’s not.”

    Adam pulled Joe’s shoulder to roll the boy toward him.  “Are you in pain?”

    Joe turned his head in hopes that Adam wouldn’t see his tear-streaked face.  “No, it’s nothin’ like that.”  He risked one quick look at his brother.  “Honest, Adam.”

    Adam licked his lips.  “Are you upset?”

    “Leave me alone, Adam!”

    Joe tried to turn away again, but Adam wouldn’t let him.  “No, I can’t do that.  Tell me what’s upsetting you, buddy.”

    Forced to face his brother, Joe lost the last vestige of emotional control.  “I-I’m sorry,” he sobbed.

    “You’ve done nothing to be sorry for,” Adam soothed, stroking the damp curls from the boy’s forehead.

    Joe shook his head fiercely.  “I been nothin’ but trouble to you this whole trip, and now I’m keepin’ you from what you came here to do and—and you won’t let me make it right.”

    “You’re no trouble, Joe,” Adam murmured, keeping his voice calm and comforting.  “Don’t think that for a minute.”

    Joe’s eyes narrowed, bitterness toward what he perceived as a lie replacing his self-regret.  “You didn’t even want me!”  He hurled the accusation in Adam’s face.

    Adam was taken aback, both by the charge itself and the vehemence with which it had been made.  “Of course, I did.  I invited you, didn’t I?”

    “I heard you.”  Realizing he’d said more than he intended, Joe turned away.

    Adam turned the tear-stained face back toward him, keeping firm grip on Joe’s chin when he tried to pull away again.  “You heard what?”

    Joe squeezed his eyes tight, wanting to avoid the confrontation, but knowing Adam wouldn’t back off until he had an answer.

    “Joe, answer me.  You heard what?”  The question was sharper, more demanding this time.

    Joe opened his eyes and fresh tears poured down his cheeks.  “You told Hoss you really wanted him.  The only reason you brought me, instead, was that business about college.  You didn’t want me; you’ve never wanted me.  Just thought it would be good for me to come, just some big sacrifice for you—and now you’re doin’ it again.”  He pulled away again, hiding his face in the pillow.  “You’re gonna hate me for it—more than you do already—and I can’t stand it.”

    Adam stared, aghast in sudden realization that his youngest brother must have eavesdropped on his all-too-revealing conversation with Hoss—and had been hurting over it ever since.  He couldn’t possibly deny what Joe had heard with his own ears, but he yearned to comfort that aching heart.  “Oh, Joe, Joe,” he murmured, reaching for him.

    Joe didn’t respond.  He just continued to cry, back heaving, breath short, racking sobs assaulting Adam’s ears with the reverberating drumbeat of accusation.  When words finally came, they spilled out still deeper pain.  “I—I remember—you and him, always together—never you and me—never—not since you came back from here.”

    Adam froze with shock.  This couldn’t be Joe, that confident, cocky kid who always seemed so certain of where he stood with everyone.  “Seemed” was obviously the significant word in that description, for this crushed child bore no resemblance to the little brother Adam thought he knew inside out.  He’d always known that Joe had a sensitive vulnerability, but he’d never suspected this kind of deep insecurity.  How long had the kid been carrying these hidden hurts?  The answer to that was also obvious— since my return from college.  Possibly, even before?

    Memories surfaced of another time Adam had seen his littlest brother’s face streaked with tears, the day he’d left home for Yale.  Such a tiny boy.  How could he have understood?  How could he have felt anything but abandonment?  But Pa had insisted that Adam go, had assured him that he would help Joe understand, that the boy would get over it.  You weren’t quite the miracle worker we thought you’d be, were you, Pa?  But, then, maybe that was my job, my miracle to work—and I wasn’t up to it, either.

    Guilt a decade and a half old rushed to engulf Adam, but he thrust it aside.  His immediate concern was to calm his little brother, to give the comfort now he couldn’t give back then.  His own heartache could wait; his little brother’s could not.  Joe was emotionally overwrought, in large part because he was exhausted from the illness and had been in a state of high-pitched agitation throughout most of the past week, but to allow these intense feelings to continue unabated would lead to further emotional exhaustion, and that would, in return, affect the boy’s physical well-being.  It had to stop—now.

    Adam turned to the bedside table, tore open a packet of sleeping powder and emptied it into a glass, which he then filled with water.  He put his arm behind Joe’s back and pulled him into a sitting position.  “Joe, I’m sorry you heard what I said to Hoss, and I understand how upset you are,” he said, reaching for the glass with the sedative.  “We need to talk things out, but not tonight.  You’re ill; you’re in need of rest.  Now I want you to drink this down and get some sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

    Swiping at his cheeks, Joe shook his head.  “There’s nothin’ to say.”

    “All right, then, just drink this,” Adam urged, wanting to avoid argument.  He cupped his left hand behind Joe’s neck and offered the medicine with his other hand.  Too weary to argue, Joe drank it down.  “That’s my boy,” Adam praised, easing Joe’s head to the pillow and returning the glass to the bedside table.

    Florence Nightingale had insisted that no nurse should ever sit on a patient’s bed, but Adam tossed that advice aside as he settled himself beside Joe with his back to the headboard.  Probably, Miss Nightingale had never nursed a patient who craved the human touch as much as did his little brother.  Pa was adept at meeting that need, but he wasn’t here—thanks to me , Adam reminded himself.  Determined to fill Pa’s shoes as best he could, he began quietly stroking Joe’s temple, humming a lullaby he’d sung when his brother was still of an age to appreciate such nighttime crooning, waiting for the sedative to take effect.

    While Joe would have considered himself too mature for the simple words that had soothed him to sleep as a child, he slowly responded to the soft sound and tender touch, and as he grew groggy, he curled back toward Adam, snuggling into his thigh as he had when he’d first heard that gentle melody.

    Adam continued humming and stroking until he sensed that his brother was asleep.  Only then, when he was certain Joe could not see, did he finally allow his own emotions to surface.  Tears began to fall down his own cheeks as he reviewed the events that had precipitated his brother’s pain, trying to see them through Joe’s eyes.  He’d already done that with his departure for the East, but now he remembered his return.  As Joe had said, he and Hoss had fallen right in with each other again, their boyhood closeness easily regained, but it had been harder to bond with the boy so much younger than he.

    For a while, in their excitement over their renewed relationship, he and Hoss had unintentionally shut that little boy out.  At Pa’s admonishment, however, they had both made an effort to include Little Joe, and Adam had thought the problem solved, despite the frequent clashes between them.  Now he realized that the hurt feelings, the sense of being unwanted, had only been buried, the pain festering away deep inside, ready to erupt in a moment of vulnerability.  The only surprise was that the explosion hadn’t come sooner.  Adam had always thought that his youngest brother had no emotional control to speak of and, though he blushed to admit it, he had prided himself on his superior ability to maintain a composed exterior, no matter what came at him.  He was beginning to realize that he and Joe weren’t so different, after all, and he could only pray that Joe hadn’t developed this ability to hide his feelings by watching his oldest brother. Oh, God, don’t let me guilty of that, too!

    As he sat beside his brother, continuing to stroke him long after Joe could feel his touch, Adam was overwhelmed with one tormenting realization. He doesn’t know I love him—and I don’t know how to tell him.  I’ve never known how to tell him.  He spent the remainder of the night, sitting there, trying to think of something he could say that would help Joe.  Obviously, the boy was too ill to be confronted with the deepest issues lying between them, but the immediate stress had to be relieved or Joe just wouldn’t get better.  Searching for the right words kept Adam awake while his brother continued his drug-induced sleep.

    Adam instinctively began to circle his thumb on Joe’s shoulder, hoping the rhythmic movement that had soothed the boy to sleep the night before would keep him dozing a little longer.  At first he told himself that he was doing it for Joe’s sake, but then he smiled.  He was facing a lot of facts about himself lately, but this discovery that he, too, could be comforted by the sense of touch was one of the more pleasant ones.

    Too soon, however, the green eyes opened and Joe awoke to find his older brother, still sitting where he’d last seen him.  “You been there all night?” Joe asked, eyes questioning.

    Adam smoothed a curl from his brother’s forehead.  “Um hmm.”

    Joe’s eyebrows met in a straight line.  “Why?”

    “Just wanted to be with you, I guess,” Adam said, giving the curls one last tender tousle.

    Joe’s face scrunched in pained remembrance of words he’d said the night before.  “Adam, I . . . I . . .”

    Adam moved around to face his brother.  “Joe, I want you to listen to me.”

    Joe shook his head.  “No, I need—”

    “You need to listen,” Adam interrupted gently, taking the boy’s face in his hands.  “Please, Joe.  You can say anything you want later, but hear me out.”

    Not feeling strong enough to do battle with Adam, Joe looked away in resignation.

    Reading the weariness in his brother’s expression, Adam began stroking Joe’s cheeks with his thumbs.  “To begin with, Joe, I want to apologize.  I’m sorry you heard what I said to Hoss.”

    “My fault,” Joe muttered, still unwilling to face his older brother.

    Adam gave him a wry smile, though Joe didn’t see it.  “If you mean that you shouldn’t have been listening at doors, I agree, but I’m here to talk about my misdeeds, not yours.”  Joe still didn’t turn his way, but Adam could tell the boy was listening.  “As I said, I’m sorry you heard what I said to Hoss—and even more sorry that I said it in the first place.  It was true at the time.  I would have preferred Hoss’s company, and I was bringing you primarily for your ‘educational benefit.’”  He leaned closer, and his voice softened as he continued, “But, Joe, I’m really glad I chose you.  I’ve enjoyed being here with you.”

    Joe began to shake his head in denial, but Adam, still holding the boy’s face between his hands, easily stopped the movement.  “No, I mean it.  We’ve had our difficult moments, but seeing all this through your eyes has made the old, new for me and the new, exciting, and I wouldn’t change a thing, buddy —except your illness.”

    A tear trickled from the corner of Joe’s eye.  “My punishment,” he whispered.

    “What?”  Adam bent closer, for he wasn’t certain he’d heard Joe correctly.

    Joe finally looked into his brother’s eyes, his own burning with a plea for forgiveness, as if Adam stood in place of the Almighty.  “P-punishment.  I wouldn’t give my place to Hoss, when I knew you wanted him, so God—”

    “Oh, good gracious, no!”  Adam rushed to gather his brother into his arms.  “Joe, no.  This illness is not some kind of divine retribution for selfishness.  If it were, I’d be the one lying there sick.”  His arms tightened as he began to rock slowly back and forth.  “Joe . . . buddy . . . it’s just an illness.  It would have struck you down back home if you hadn’t come here.  I’m all the more glad you were here when it hit, where the best medical help in America was only a summons away, ‘cause, buddy, as good as Dr. Martin is, I don’t think”—he broke off, realizing he was about to reveal more than he intended.

    Hearing his brother stop so abruptly, Joe guessed the rest of the sentence, and when he pulled back to gaze intently into Adam’s face, what he saw confirmed his sudden suspicion.  “You don’t think he could have helped me?”  His shoulders began to shake.  “You think I’d’ve died back home?”

    Adam bit his lip, wishing he could call back the words, but he realized that honesty was, as per the old proverb, the best policy to win his brother’s trust, so he nodded.  “The treatment you were given isn’t even accepted here, and medical knowledge, like all other varieties, seeps west slowly.  Yes, Joe, I think you might have died back home; in fact, I think it’s likely.”  He laid his brother back on the pillow and gazed out the window, as if seeing another time and place.  “I once knew a boy like you, who showed those same symptoms.”  Briefly, he outlined for Joe what had happened years ago to his college friend.

    When he finished, Joe was twisting the covers between restless fingers.  “And that’s why you made me have that operation, even when I begged you not to?”

    Adam blinked back the tears forming in his eyes.  “That’s why.  I was afraid I’d lose you the way I lost him.  I’m sorry I had to force you, buddy, but I just didn’t think you were competent to be making life or death decisions right then.”  As he looked earnestly at Little Joe, this time it was ebony eyes pleading pardon from emerald.

    It was granted immediately.  Joe reached up to lay his hand against his brother’s cheek.  “No, I wasn’t,” he admitted.  “Thanks.”

    Adam pressed the hand against his cheek.  “No thanks needed.  I have my reward; I have you.”  Unable to contain himself any longer, Adam let the tears flow down to bathe their now-interlaced fingers.

    Shocked into silence, Joe could do nothing but watch the tears roll down.  Adam, crying?  Adam, who never lost that iron grip on his emotions—crying, for him?  Did he really care that much?  The moment passed, and the controlled mask was soon back in place.  But Joe had seen behind it, and he knew he’d never again doubt the depth of his brother’s love—not just for Pa and Hoss, but for him, as well.

    Adam laid Joe’s hand down at his side.  “Joe, I have one more thing I want to say to you; then it’s your turn, if you want it.  I brought you on this trip for all the wrong reasons”—he laid his finger on Joe’s lips when he saw his brother preparing to speak—“and because of that I’ve done you a real disservice.  I’ve made it clear to you that this was my trip, not yours—that you were, at best, an indulgently tolerated guest with no rights, no privileges but to tag along wherever I wanted to go and do whatever I wanted to do.”

    Joe brushed the restraining finger aside.  “Adam, it hasn’t been that bad.”

    “Sure it has,” Adam contradicted softly.  “Sure it has.  Pa warned me about that attitude before we left home, but I wouldn’t listen.  I just had to show you who was boss, and though only once did you really buck my authority, I’ve held it against you ever since—to the extent that I almost overlooked your critical illness because I let anger blind me to what was right in front of my face.”

    “You came back.”

    The love and gratitude in Joe’s eyes warmed Adam’s heart, but only intensified his guilt.  “Yes, thank God, I came back, because I could not have lived with myself if anything had happened to you because I wouldn’t listen.  I owe you an apology, and I want to couple it with a promise, Joe—a promise I made to God for sparing your life.  From now on, buddy, this is your trip, not mine.  We’re going to get you well again, and then whatever you want is what we’ll do—even if it’s nightly excursions to Shantyville.”

    Amused by the selection of that particular example, Joe had to grin.  “Adam, you don’t have to do that.”

    “Yes, I do,” Adam said with a firm nod, “and what’s more, I want to.  Now, I’m going downstairs to order a tray sent up for breakfast; then we’ll get you freshened up and tucked in for a nice nap.”

    Joe affected a sour smile.  “That’s what you call doin’ things my way?  A nap?”

    Adam laughed and ruffled his brother’s curls as he stood.  “I said after we got you on your feet again, we’d do things your way.  Until then, you will obey orders, young man.”

    Joe faked a groan, but caved in with a grin.  When Adam sounded that much like Pa, there was no defying his authority, though at this particular moment Joe had no desire to do so, anyway.  He was content to lie back and let his big brother continue to take care of him.

    After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast on a tray, to which Joe did some semblance of justice, Adam brought a basin of warm water from the bathroom.  Setting it on the bedside table, he removed his brother’s nightshirt.

    “What are you doing?” Joe asked.

    “I’m giving you a bath,” Adam explained cheerily.  “They did that in the hospital, didn’t they?”  He had noticed that Joe always appeared fresh and clean when he visited.

    “Yeah,” Joe conceded.  “Would’ve felt good, too, if they hadn’t woke me up so early to do it.”

    Adam laughed as he soaped a washcloth.  “Well, it’s late enough now, isn’t it?”

    Joe grinned.  “Yeah, after breakfast is perfect timing, big brother.”

    Smiling, Adam began to wash his brother’s chest and arms.

    “You’re ‘most as good as that fellow at the hospital,” Joe observed.

    “Oh?  So it wasn’t all bad there, huh?”

    “No, not all, I guess,” Joe admitted, willing to be honest now that he was safely outside those hated walls.  “I liked that man, Adam.  He had real gentle hands, kind of like Hoss’s, and he talked friendly to me.”

    Adam rinsed out the washcloth and wiped the soap from the area he’d already washed.  “He’s the one who told you that you’d have to work for your keep at the hospital, though, isn’t he?”

    “Yeah, but he was just mixed up.”

    Adam smiled at that fresh reminder of his little brother’s forgiving nature, a quality he hoped would be applied to him for all the shortcomings he’d demonstrated over the last several weeks.  After the bath he examined Joe’s incision, redressed the wound and dressed him in a clean nightshirt.  Then he tucked the sheets up to his brother’s chest and slipped out, as he could see that Joe was growing drowsy again.

    Back in the parlor, he glanced at the bathroom door and pondered the idea of a long, relaxing soak, but lack of sleep made the sofa look even more inviting.  He stretched out, intending to rest a short while before tending to his own grooming, but exhausted by the emotional confrontations of both last night and that morning, he fell soundly asleep.

    He woke, yawning and stretching, and reached into his pocket for his watch.  Nearly noon!  He cocked an ear and heard nothing, but decided he should check on Joe.  Looking in, he saw that his brother was still asleep, so he went to his bedroom for a quick wash and to change into fresh clothes.  The bath would have to wait ‘til later, as he wanted to get his brother’s meals on a regular schedule, and it was already late.

    When he’d finished freshening up, Adam again entered Joe’s bedroom and was pleased to see that his brother was beginning to stir.  He woke Joe gently and presented him with a menu from the restaurant downstairs, which he had picked up that morning.  “What looks good, little buddy?”

    Pleased with being allowed to order his own meal again, Joe brightened at once, for this one simple privilege made him feel he’d left the hospital behind for good.  He selected chicken salad, which seemed to Adam like a good, although not filling choice.  “Are you sure that’s all you want?” he queried.  He started to suggest a piece of pie, but stopped himself.  If Joe’s appetite was still this small, he shouldn’t squander it on sweets.

    “I’m sure,” Joe said.  “Can I get out of bed for dinner?  I mean, I did yesterday, and I kind of need to get up anyway.”

    Adam chuckled.  It certainly appeared that he’d wasted his money on that bedpan!  “Sure, I don’t see why not,” he said and pulled the covers back.

    While Joe’s dinner was a light one, Adam was gratified to see that his brother ate all that was on his plate.  His appetite was obviously not up to the level he’d maintained before the illness, but he was eating adequately, and while he seemed more tired than expected, returning to bed without complaint after the meal, his color was good and he was resting well—all evidence that Adam had made the right decision in removing his brother from the hospital to care for the boy himself.

    After indulging in a mid-afternoon bath and shave, Adam wrote to his father, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain the exact circumstances under which Joe had left the hospital.  Instead, he wrote a glowing description of his brother’s improvement since doing so.  However, he couldn’t help feeling, as he wrote, that he was only digging himself in deeper, since he’d have to confess eventually and Pa was bound to be furious with him for again taking matters into his own hands.

    As he sealed the envelope and addressed it, Adam wondered for a moment why he hadn’t already received a wrath-filled wire from Pa.  Of course, to fully express Pa’s wrath would probably require the longest telegram on record, even surpassing the Nevada State Constitution, wired to Washington to secure statehood, which had previously held that distinction.  The absence of a wire meant one of two things: either Pa didn’t want to send a telegram that long or he was already on his way to deliver the fiery castigation in person.  Adam fervently hoped it was the former.

    Not having had time earlier, he sat down to read the morning newspaper and shook his head, saddened by the death tally from the heat.  Eighty deaths so far this summer, and that was only in Philadelphia.  Other cities were suffering, too, but the paper had no statistics on casualties elsewhere.  Adam was doubly glad he’d moved his brother to the coolest part of town for his recuperation.

    About halfway through the newspaper, he heard Joe calling his name and immediately set the paper aside.  “Right here, buddy,” he said, leaning through the doorway.  “You need something?”

    “Water closet,” Joe muttered tersely.

    Walking in, Adam smiled.  “And you remembered to ask for help.  Good boy.”  He helped Joe to his feet, pleased to see that his steps seemed steadier as he walked to the bathroom.  When Joe came out again, Adam asked if he wanted to go back to bed or if he’d prefer to sit up awhile.

    Joe offered an eager smile.  “Could I?”

    “Sure,” Adam said easily.  “I’ll get your robe.”  He brought the garment from the bedroom and helped Joe put it on.  Then with his arm draped over his brother’s shoulder, he asked, “Would you like to sit out on the balcony?  It overlooks the garden and is a very pleasant place to relax.”

    Joe brightened still more at the thought of being outdoors and murmured quick assent.  “Oh, this is nice!” he said when Adam steered him through the French doors to the balcony.

    His arm still behind Joe’s back, Adam pointed out Fairmount Park to the east.  “That’s the part where the zoo is located,” he reminded Joe.

    Joe nodded.  “I really liked it there.  You think, maybe, we could go there again before we head home?”

    Adam rubbed his brother’s back.  “Anything you want, buddy.  This is your trip now, remember?”

    Joe smiled, the repetition of the promise assuring him that Adam had meant what he’d said that morning.  “Sit with me?” he asked as Adam settled him in one of the white wicker chairs with blue-sprigged, cream-colored cushions.

    “Sure.”  Adam pulled the other chair close.  To make light conversation, he began to point out the various kinds of flowering plants in the garden below.  “When you’re able, I’ll take you down there for a walk.  That should help you get a little strength back in your legs.”

    “Sounds good,” Joe said, stifling a yawn.

    Adam tilted his head to get a good look at his brother’s face.  “Ready to go back to bed?” he asked.

    Joe took a deep breath of the fragrant air.  “No, I’d rather sit here awhile, if that’s okay with you.”

    “For a while,” Adam agreed, “but I don’t want you to overtire yourself.”

    In response, Joe gave him the trusting smile that Adam had come to treasure, but he was soon ready to return to bed.  When he was settled back in his room, Joe asked Adam if he would read to him.  Adam complied, and the rest of the afternoon passed quickly.  Soon it was time to order supper, but Joe at first said he didn’t want anything.  “I’m not hungry, Adam.  I haven’t done anything to work up an appetite,” he offered as an excuse.

    “Appetite or not, you need the nourishment,” Adam insisted firmly.  “I’ll just order you a bowl of soup, all right?”

    Joe shrugged.  “I guess so, if you want to throw your money away, but don’t expect me to eat much of it.”

    “I’ll risk it,” Adam said wryly.  As he had suspected, once Joe began to eat, the tasty food stimulated his appetite, and the boy finished more than half of the light meal.  Well satisfied, Adam praised his brother and again earned the smile in which he delighted, the one he would have missed so much had Joe been taken from him.

    After supper he prepared his brother for bed, giving him a rubdown as he had the night before.

    “A fellow could get real spoiled for this kind of thing, you know?” Joe murmured, his sigh of contentment fading into a sleepy yawn.

    Adam chuckled, remembering how Dr. Whittaker had accused him of spoiling his brother.  Guilty, as charged, he admitted, but he didn’t care.  The rubdown was having the effect he intended, and Joe was soon asleep.