"We shall have to recast some of these questions," remarked another member of the board.
"Evidently. Evidently. Well, Finch, this is a test of your historical background, extremely important to a Genealogist. What was the vernacular name of the twentieth Pope John?"
Coogan leaned over and said in a stage whisper: "There wasn't any! There wasn't any!"
Finch merely smiled. "If," he said, "thou asked me the name of Pope John XX, the answer would have been none. But as thou has asked me for the twentieth Pope named John, the answer is Pope John XXI, who was called the twenty-first instead of the twentieth as the result of some mistake. As for his name—let me see. Borgia? Medici? No; I think John XXI was Pedro some-thing-or-other. Will that do?"
"Certainly, certainly," said Calthorp. "Thus far youse have shown a high degree of discrimination. Now there is one more test youse must pass before being reclassified as a Genealogist; the test for delicacy combined with patience."
The Professor dumped a box of jackstraws on the table, little rods with projections at the end of them, and a hook to fish them from the pile. "Youse understand," he said, "that youse must remove each straw without jostling any of the others remaining in the pile. If youse do, those youse have removed are put back in the heap. This is a time test. Are youse ready?" Calthorp took out a stop-watch.
Finch went to work, locating the topmost straw and snaking it from the pile without difficulty. His hands, trained by years of work on delicate archaeological fragments, moved in a smooth rhythm.
Coogan leaned over his shoulder, obviously suffering agonies because there was no way he could help. Coogan's breath whistled in Finch's ear, a disturbing element. Finch tried to imagine him as merely some bloodthirsty Anatolian fly, but the distraction was considerable. That straw—was it moving?
Ktchoo!
Coogan's sneeze sent all the jackstraws flying.
"Oh, that's too bad," said Calthorp Milo Professor. He turned to his colleagues. "It would be manifestly unreasonable to make him repeat this test. I propose we reclassify without including any result to this final experiment."
Five heads nodded as one. Coogan Francis Fixer offered his hand: "See what I done for you?" he said.
Five:
On the following morning Finch made his patron-call in the elaborate quarters of Sullivan Michael Politician. The breakfast was better, with a choice of dishes kept hot on a sideboard, and the Politician greeted him with more cheerfulness than Orange had been able to muster. "Here's your warrant, my lad, all signed and attested. And here's the advance on your first commission. Sign here."
"What's the commission?" Finch asked.
"Oh, youse'll be needing the money to buy books and the like youse need in your trade. Go down into Louisville and report to Mullen Jefferson Dr., and District Historian. He'll be telling youse what to do on that."
"Thank you. But what will it be? "
"I want youse to find my ancestors, of course. What use else is a Genealogist, and we haven't had one at Strawberry House this long time. I have a suspicion that me, myself, I'm descended from Brian Boru and also that incorruptible patriot, Daniel Boone, and if it's so, I would have it confirmed."
Finch frowned. "I see. But you—thou—were born in Ireland, I would say?"
"The same, all the saints bless and preserve that emerald island. Right by the lakes of Killarney. I came to this country when I was a lad."
"But Daniel Boone; how am I to show—"
"Sure, that's a problem for youse, and a real genealogist will never worry twice over it. How could it be that someone of the great house of Boone did not think of going back to the old sod?"
"I see," said Finch for the second time. He did see, too; it was a political question. Sullivan Michael Politician, as a son of Dan'l Boone, in Kentucky ….
The Strawberry House official public automobile was a large seven-passenger affair with the squarish lines of A. D. 1920. Finch asked the driver if he might sit up front with him.
"Shore," said the man, who had introduced himself as Wilberforce Calvin Chauffeur, "if thou wants to. Most passengers make a dive for the rear seat."
He grinned and Finch experienced a thrill at being addressed for the first time in the honorific style, in accordance with his gain in status. Other inhabitants of Strawberry House who had business in Louisville that day appeared and climbed into their places. They started easily, chugged along for a winding half-mile of driveway, and came out onto Preston Street Road.
"Is this the best you can do?" asked Finch.
Wilberforce Calvin threw his passenger a puzzled look. "Thou people are awful ignorant sometimes. Don't thou know that thirty miles a hour is the limit? Gives a car a clear advantage over a horse, don't it?"
"Ha." Finch digested the information, then asked: "But why haven't they improved the overall design of cars?"
"How do you mean, improved?"
"Well—" Finch fumbled. "You—youse could increase the power and lower the top and smooth off the lines to cut air resistance—"
The Chauffeur shrugged. "Air ain't resisted me none yet, and I don't know what I want more power for when I can't go no faster. Besides if I goes around all the time saying, 'This design is all wrong; it ought to be such-and-such,' He'll get himself suspicioned of accidie."
"Of what?"
Wilberforce emitted a sigh. "I don't know what thou literary gents call it when somebody ain't quite got a gen-uwine seizure of irrationality, but is pretty plumb dissatisfied with 'most everything. Us plain folks just call it accidie and let it go at that."
The conversation flagged; Finch looked abroad at the central part of Louisville, which bore little resemblance to the city he had known. Houses like that from which he had come dominated the landscape, but instead of being crowded together, they simply became larger, until they were vast human beehives covering what would have been several blocks' space and dwarfing the people who sauntered without hurry along streets profusely lined with trees. There seemed to be no specific business district, nor any devoted to manufacture; each house was a complete urban unit, with the larger ones apparently exercising functions that could only be handled by numbers of people. Moreover, though the ground-plan of the city resembled Louisville as Finch remembered it, there was one striking difference. All the streets were curved.
Finch entered the offices of Mullen Jefferson Dr., District Historian, to find a cadaverous-looking man who pumped his hand vigorously. "Sullivan called me up this morning; said youse would be down. Glad to hear of your appointment; They've needed a Genealogist at Strawberry House for months. How can I help youse, Finch, Mr.?"
"Thank thou; thou can help me acquire the technique of climbing family trees, about which I know as much at present as Ajax did about Fourier's theorem."
"No preliminary training? Oh deah." Mullen seated himself and lit a cigar. "Cain't enroll at the University because this is summer vacation. Dunno. I suppose it's reasonable to leave such appointments to the house politician, but we people at District do hev to carry the load now and then."
"I wouldn't say I was entirely unprepared," said Finch. "I've had a good deal of experience in history and archaeology."
"Youse have? That's much better. The history will give youse your basic research methods, and the archaeology will help youse with the job of faking tombstones when it's necessary."
"Faking tombstones?" said Finch, wonderingly.
"Sure. Youse'll see. Rational thing to do; harms no one and satisfies the people that commission youse. Reckon youse had best get a couple of textbooks, and then call ma in if youse strike a hard case. De William's Methodology of Genealogy—I can loan youse a copy of that—and Morgan's Historic Families of Kentucky are about what youse need to start with. Don't take De Williams' hyperaletheism too seriously, though."