Senility had begun to creep up shortly after his hundredth birthday; on this October twenty-first, he was a hundred and five. He had once been a fine finish carpenter specializing in dressers, banisters, and moldings. His specialties in these latter days included eating Jell-O pudding without getting it up his nose and occasionally making it to the toilet before releasing half a dozen blood-streaked pebbles into the commode.
But in his prime - around the age of eighty-five, say - he could have named almost all the roads leading in and out of Chester's Mill, and the total would have been thirty-four.
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