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"What's the trouble with having a picnic?" the man said.
"Nothing," I said. "I just thought something was wrong. Your car hood is up."
"I like it that way," said the man.
By a simple statement of where I was bound and why I could have reduced the man to a quivering jelly. But he had Quebec license plates, and what with my close association with the White House, I thought it wise to do nothing which might jeopardize our country's cordial relations with the Dominion of Canada. I arrived at Errol in midafternoon.
Everywhere in the tiny, wood-burning hamlet you could immediately feel the suspense and see it in the eyes of the people. A telephone crew was working on the wires. Several new poles had been planted. A man told me I could buy my New Hampshire fishing license in a restaurant by a certain gas station.
"How old are you?" the young man who was filling out my fishing license asked me.
"Fifty-four," I said. "What time is he coming through tomorrow?"
"About 11:20. What color's your hair?"
"Brown, turning gray. Kind of exciting, isn't it?"
"You ain't kidding. What's your height?"