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Usually he just barges in.

"Look here now, Dave, we've got to straighten a few things out quietly. Your mother says she told you you could watch that program, whatever it was. So O.K., go ahead, you can finish it."

"Yeah, it's about over by now." I'm still sore, and besides Pop's still standing in my door, so I figure there's a hitch in this somewhere.

"But anyway, you shouldn't get so sore about an old television program that you shout 'Mop it up yourself' at me."

"Hmm."

"Hmm, nothing."

"Well, I don't think you should turn a guy's TV program off in the middle without even finding out about it."

Pop says "Hmm" this time, and we both stand and simmer down.

I look at my watch.

It's a quarter to eleven.

I say, "Well, O.K. I might as well see the end. Sorry I got sore."

Pop moves out of the doorway.

He says, "Hereafter I will only turn off your TV programs before they start, not in the middle."

Just as I get the TV on and settle down, the doorbell rings.

"Goodness, who could that be so late?" says Mom.

Pop goes to the door.

It's Tom, and Hilda is with him.

I turn off the television set—I've lost track of what's happening, and it doesn't seem to be the grandfather who's the spook after all.

It's the first time Hilda has been to our house, and Tom introduces her around.

Then there's one of those moments of complete silence, with everyone looking embarrassed, before we all start to speak at once.

"Hilda came to the beach with us," I say.

"I told Tom we shouldn't come so late," says Hilda.

Pop says, "Not late at all. Come in and sit down."

Hilda sits on the sofa, where Cat is curled up.

He looks at her, puts his head back and goes on sleeping.

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