"As I said, I can't prove anything," McFeely sighed, "but I had to tell what I know. Personally, I think that he did it, and that the horror of it all jarred him back to reality. His whole life since then -- the bland demeanor, the fish-feedings, the pointless songs -- has been some sort of penance. And although Friday's still a pompous little despot, he learned a wee bit of humility from his brush with death." His head cocked to the side, McFeely's restless eyes peered at me over the top of his glasses. "See what I'm saying?" Before I could answer, though, he cast a sidelong glance at his pocketwatch and gasped. "Oh my. I'm late, late, late to Handyman Negri's! Well, speedy delivery!" And with that, the stooped delivery man bustled off toward the horizon, leaving a trail of mysteries behind him.