Useful? That was another word for hard labor. "Well then, you can make yourself useful," his mom said. "I've got nothing better to do," Harvey said, without looking around. "You shouldn't waste your time sitting up here," his mom said when she came in and found him watching the raindrops chase each other down the glass of his bedroom window. "Do tell."Īnd, brushing away a tear, the detective would reply: "Harvey Swick was eaten by the great gray beast February." And finally, as the wasted day dwindled to dusk, he'd trace the homeward trek, and as he set foot on the step from which he had departed that morning, and people asked him-as they would-why such a sweet soul as Harvey had died, he would shake his head and say: "It's very simple." Then he'd sit at Harvey's desk, and listen to the pitiful drone of the history teacher and the science teacher, and wonder how the heroic boy had managed to keep his eyes open.
The detective would first follow Harvey's route to school every morning, trekking through the dismal streets. Then, and only then, would the grim truth be discovered. It would become a celebrated mystery, which wouldn't be solved until some great detective decided to re-create a day in Harvey's life. Then maybe people would get to wondering why such a fine young lad had perished in his prime. More than likely he'd become so bored as the hours crawled by that one day he'd simply forget to breathe. Here he was, buried in the belly of that smothering month, wondering if he would ever find his way out through the cold coils that lay between here and Easter.
The great gray beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive.
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