I'm in fevered anticipation, wearing jodhpurs and high-top shoes, ready to go out with Harry, feeling great. This is what I want, what I thought I'd get all those years of waiting and thinking about Panama. A great adventure in the dead of night. After supper, anyway. The jodhpurs are what I wore when I went to Huffman's pasture with the boys—practical but hot. Loose pants or khaki shorts like Harry's would be cooler but Mother won't hear of it. "Scratches and insects and snakes," she says. I have to cover my legs, wear lace-up leather footgear. I'm too happy to complain. Harry has told me that in the field he carries a white canvas bag with his field notebook, red cards to tag the canvassed buildings, and a certificate to show he's the official census taker. Not many workers can read, but the sight of him in police uniform with the certificates makes him look official. That's what matters. All this is more than I could have hoped for and better than helping Wil and Orville. Harry is my new Wright brother, a more worldly one.
