The only thing wrong with The Port is the lack (at present) of a dozen sequels to it, all with many of the same characters. Mr. Hough's story might, years ago, have been named Whit Fifield's Freedom (or, How I Escaped from Civilization's Manacles). Well, Whit, 35, lives year around on Baddow Port, a kind of two centuries old ghost village of ten creaky summerhouses somewhere below Cape Cod. He's a former ad man (but this is NOT a Madison Avenue novel). His middle-aged neighbor, Solon, is dickering with a city slicker named Pickering over the sale of some beach- front property. The slicker wants to build a yacht basin and a big development. Naturally this would kill everything that makes The Port such an enviable haven from the mayhem of Social Culture. Will Solon sell? A couple of city ladies wiggle through the plot, too, occasionally reclining, but the atmosphere remains wonderfully Way Down East and blueberry-pudding-Yankee. No tintypes, the characters have tang and shrewdness, they live and grow, and the dialogue and descriptions show care. Recommended with love for all those who share that feeling for New England.