||Baker Sipapu 47 ever lived. It was bad enough before he learned to read, but now he is just impossible. Joanna taught him to sound out his words and he can get most of them, but when he can't he just yells at me, and if I'm reading, I have to stop and help him. A few times, and I just give up. He sounds his words out loud, and he can make more noise reading the funny papers than most kids can playing cops and robbers. Picture-skewl" Jim snorted. "What a word for the funnies for a nine-year-old to handle." Bob and Joanna laughed, and Jim tended to his driving for a rough mile or two. The bouncing was beginning to make Bob's leg and hip hurt, but this just didn't seem to be the time to tell Jim he drove too fast. They had turned off the highway, and were skirting the mountain toward the west, around the northern nose of the peaks. "Do you still get road grading done past your place to those uranium mines?" Bob asked. "When they can get around to me, but this has been a bad winter, and they haven't got to this road yet," Jim answered. Presently they drove up to the house, set in a beautiful grove of pines, unaccountably growing this low on the mountain slope. Jim parked in the car port at the side of the house opposite the garage. This was the wood shed in winter, but only a couple of tiers of wood shut it in, and there was room for a truck.