The Fourth R | Page 3

"Now--" and he stood up to swing
his flashlight in widening circles, searching the area carefully.
* * * * *
Jimmy Holden did not sicken. He went cold. He froze as the dancing flashlight passed
over his head, and relaxed partially when it moved away in a series of little jumps
pausing to give a steady light for close inspection. The light swung around and centered
on the smashed automobile. It was upside down, a ruin with one wheel still turning idly.
The stranger went to it, and knelt to peer inside. He pried ripped metal away to get a clear
sight into the crushed interior. He went flat on his stomach and tried to penetrate the area
between the crumpled car-top and the bruised ground, and he wormed his way in a circle
all around the car, examining the wreck minutely.
The sound of a distant automobile engine became audible, and the searching man
mumbled a curse. With haste he scrambled to his feet and made a quick inspection of the
one wabbly-turning wheel. He stripped a few shards of rubber away, picked at something
in the bent metal rim, and put whatever he found in his pocket. When his hand came from
the pocket it held a packet of paper matches. With an ear cocked at the road above and
the sound of the approaching car growing louder, the stranger struck one match and
touched it to the deck of matches. Then with a callous gesture he tossed the flaring pack
into a pool of spilled gasoline. The fuel went up in a blunt whoosh!
The dancing flames revealed the face of Jimmy Holden's "Uncle" Paul Brennan, his
features in a mask that Jimmy Holden had never seen before.
With the determined air of one who knows that still another piece lies hidden, Paul
Brennan started to beat back and forth across the trail of ruin. His light swept the ground
like the brush of a painter, missing no spot. Slowly and deliberately he went, paying no
attention to the creeping tongues of flame that crept along damp trails of spilled gasoline.
Jimmy Holden felt helplessly alone.

For "Uncle" Paul Brennan was the laughing uncle, the golden uncle; his godfather; the
bringer of delightful gifts and the teller of fabulous stories. Classmate of his father and
admirer of his mother, a friend to be trusted as he trusted his father and mother, as they
trusted Paul Brennan. Jimmy Holden did not and could not understand, but he could feel
the presence of menace. And so with the instinct of any trapped animal, he curled inward
upon himself and cringed.
Education and information failed. Jimmy Holden had been told and told and instructed,
and the words had been graven deep in his mind by the same fabulous machine that his
father used to teach him his grammar and his vocabulary and his arithmetic and the horde
of other things that made Jimmy Holden what he was: "If anything happens to us, you
must turn to Paul Brennan!"
But nothing in his wealth of extraordinary knowledge covered the way to safety when the
trusted friend turned fiend.
* * * * *
Shaken by the awful knowledge that all of his props had been kicked out from under him,
now at last Jimmy Holden whimpered in helpless fright. Brennan turned towards the
sound and began to beat his way through the underbrush.
Jimmy Holden saw him coming. It was like one of those dreams he'd had where he was
unable to move, his muscles frozen, as some unknown horror stalked him. It could only
end in a terrifying fall through cold space towards a tremendous lurch against the
bedsprings that brought little comfort until his pounding heart came back to normal. But
this was no dream; it was a known horror that stalked him, and it could not end as a
dream ends. It was reality.
The horror was a close friend turned animal, and the end was more horrible because
Jimmy Holden, like all other five-year-olds, had absolutely no understanding nor accurate
grasp of the concept called death. He continued to whimper even though he realized that
his fright was pointing him out to his enemy. And yet he had no real grasp of the concept
enemy. He knew about pain; he had been hurt. But only by falls, simple misadventures,
the needles of inoculation administered by his surgeon mother, a paddling for mischief by
his engineer father.
But whatever unknown fate was coming was going to be worse than "hurt." It was
frightful.
Then fate, assisted by Brennan's own act of trying to obliterate any possible evidence by
fire, attracted a savior. The approaching car stopped on the road above and a voice called
out, "Hello, down there!"