Half a block from the main street I led him up on the porch of a small yellow cottage. The front door stood open, left that way when the occupants ran down to welcome police and Marines, no doubt. Just inside the door, beside a hall rack, was a wicker porch chair. I committed unlawful entry to the extent of dragging that chair out on the porch.
“Sit down, son,” I urged the boy.
He sat, looking up at me with puzzled freckled face. I took a firm grip on his crutch and pulled it out of his hand.
“Here’s five bucks for rental,” I said, “and if I lose it I’ll buy you one of ivory and gold.”
And I put the crutch under my arm and began to propel myself up the hill.
It was my first experience with a crutch. I didn’t break any records. But it was a lot better than tottering along on an unassisted bum ankle.
The hill was longer and steeper than some mountains I’ve seen, but the gravel walk to the Russians’ house was finally under my feet.
I was still some dozen feet from the porch when Princess Zhukovski opened the door.