12

TO Jim it seemed that he awakened out of a box. One whole side of him was encased in painful stiffness. He opened his eyes and looked about the tent. A grey and listless dawn had come. The coffin still lay where it had, but Mac and London were gone. He heard the pounding that must have awakened him, hammers on wood. For a time he lay quietly looking about the tent, but at last he tried to sit up. The box of pain held him. He rolled over and climbed up to his knees, and then stood up, drooping his hurt shoulder to protect it from tension.

The flap swung up and Mac entered. His blue denim jacket glistened with moisture. “Hi, Jim. You got some sleep, didn’t you. How’s the arm?”

“Stiff,” said. “Is it still raining?”

“Dirty drizzle. Doc’s coming to look at your shoulder in a minute. Lord, it’s wet outside! Soon’s the guys walk around a little bit, it’ll be all slop.”

“What’s the pounding?”

“Well, we’ve been building the stand for Joy. Even dug up an old flag to go over him.” He held up a small dingy package of cloth, and unrolled it, a threadbare and stained American flag. He spread it carefully on the coffin top. “No,” he said. “I think that’s wrong. I think the field should be over the left breast, like this.”

“It’s a lousy dirty flag,” Jim said.

“I know, but it’ll get over big. Doc ought to be along any minute now.”

“I’m hungry as hell,” said Jim.

“Who isn’t? We’re going to have rolled oats, straight, for breakfast, no sugar or no milk—just oats.”

“Even that sounds good to me. You don’t sound so low this morning, Mac.”

“Me? Well, the guys aren’t knocked out as much as I thought they would be. The women ’re raising hell, but the guys are in pretty good shape, considering.”

Burton hustled in. “How’s it feel, Jim?”

“Pretty sore.”

“Well, sit down over here. I’ll put on a clean bandage.” Jim sat on a box and braced himself against expected pain, but the doctor worked deftly, removed the old wrapping and applied a new one without hurting him. “Old Dan’s upset,” he said. “He’s afraid he isn’t going to get to go to the funeral. He says he started this strike, now everybody’s forgetting him.”

Mac asked, “Do you think we could put him on a truck and take him along, Doc? It’d be swell publicity if we could.”

“You could, Mac, but it’d hurt him like the devil; and it might cause shock complications. He’s an old man. Hold still, Jim. I’m nearly through. No, I’ll tell you what we’d better do. We’ll tell him we’re going to take him, and then when we start to lift him, I think he’ll beg off. His pride’s just hurt. He thinks Joy stole the show from him.” He patted the finished bandage. “There you are, Jim. How do you feel now?”

Jim moved his shoulder cautiously. “Better. Sure, that’s lots better.”

Mac said, “Why don’t you go and see the old guy, Jim, after you eat. He’s a friend of yours.”

“I guess I will.”

Burton explained, “He’s a little bit off, Jim. Don’t worry him. All this excitement has gone to his head a little bit.”

Jim said, “Sure, I’ll lead him along.” He stood up. “Say, that feels lots better.”

“Let’s get some mush,” said Mac. “We want to start this funeral in time so it’ll tie up the noon traffic in town, if we can.”

Doc snorted. “Always a friend to man. God, you’re a scorpion, Mac! If I were bossing the other side I’d take you out and shoot you.”

“Well, they’ll do that some day, I guess,” Mac replied. “They’ve done everything else to me.”

They filed out of the tent. Outside the air was filled with tiny drops of falling water, a grey, misty drizzle. The orchard trees were dim behind a curtain of grey gauze. Jim looked down the line of sodden tents. The streets between the lines were already whipped to slushy mud by the feet of moving people, and the people moved constantly for there was no dry place to sit down. Lines of men waited their turns at the toilets at the ends of the streets.

Burton and Mac and Jim walked toward the stoves. Thick blue smoke from wet wood poured from the chimneys. On the stove-tops the wash-boilers of mush bubbled, and the cooks stirred with long sticks. Jim felt the mist penetrating down his neck. He pulled his jacket closer and buttoned the top button. “I need a bath,” he said.

“Well, take a sponge bath. That’s the only kind we have. Here, I brought your food can.”

They stepped to the end of the line of men waiting by the stove. The cooks filled the containers with mush as the line filed by. Jim gathered some of it on his eating stick and blew it cool. “It tastes good,” he said. “I’m half-starved, I guess.”

“Well, you ought to be, if you aren’t. London’s over supervising the platform. Come on, let’s go over.” They slushed through the mud, stepping clear of the tracks when any untrampled ground showed. In back of the stoves the new platform stood, a little deck, constructed of old fence-posts and culvert planks. It was raised about four feet above the ground level. London was just nailing on a hand-rail. “Hello,” he said. “How was breakfast?”

“Roast dirt would taste swell this morning,” said Mac. “This is the last, ain’t it?”

“Yep. They ain’t no more when that’s gone.”

“Maybe Dick’ll have better luck today,” Jim suggested. “Why don’t you let me go out and rustle food, Mac? I’m not doing anything.”

Mac said, “You’re stayin’ here. Look, London, this guy’s marked; they try to get him twice already, and here he wants to go out and walk the streets alone.”

“Don’t be a damn fool,” said London. “We’re goin’ put you on the truck with the coffin. You can’t walk none with that hurt. You ride on the truck.”

“What th’ hell?” Jim began.

London scowled at him. “Don’t get smart with me,” he said. “I’m the boss here. When you get to be boss, you tell me. I’m tellin’ you, now.”

Jim’s eyes flared rebelliously. He looked quickly at Mac and saw that he was grinning and waiting. “O.K.,” said Jim. “I’ll do what you say.”

Mac said, “Here’s something you can do, Jim. See if you think it’s all right, London. S’pose Jim just circulates and talks to the guys? Just finds out how they feel? We ought to know how far we can go. I think the guys’d talk to Jim.”

“What do you want to know?” London asked.

“Well, we ought to know how they feel about the strike now.”

“Sounds all right to me,” said London.

Mac turned to Jim. “Go and see old Dan,” he said. “And then just get to talkin’ to a lot of the guys, a few at a time. Don’t try and sell ’em nothing. Just ’yes’ ’em until you find out how they feel. Can you do that, Jim?”

“Sure. Where do they keep old Dan?”

“Look. See down that second row, that tent that’s whiter’n the rest? That’s Doc’s hospital tent. I guess old Dan’ll be in there.”

“I’ll look in on him,” said Jim. He scraped up the last of his mush on his paddle and ate it. At one of the water barrels he dipped water to wash the eating can, and, on passing his pup-tent threw the can inside. There was a little movement in the tent. Jim dropped on his knees and crawled inside. Lisa was there. She had been nursing the baby. She covered her breast hastily.

“Hello,” said Jim.

She blushed and said faintly, “Hello.”

“I thought you were going to sleep in the hospital tent.”

“There was guys there,” she said.

“I hope you didn’t get wet here last night.”

She pulled the shoulder blanket neatly down. “No, there wasn’t no leak.”

“What you scared of?” Jim asked. “I won’t hurt you. I helped you once, Mac and I did.”

“I know. That’s why.”

“What are you talking about?”

Her head almost disappeared under the blanket. “You seen me—without no clothes on,” she said faintly.

Jim started to laugh, and then caught himself. “That doesn’t mean anything,” he said. “You shouldn’t feel bad about that. We had to help you.”

“I know.” Her eyes rose up for a moment. “Makes me feel funny.”

“Forget it,” said Jim. “How’s the baby?”

“All right.”

“Nursing it all right?”

“Yeah.” Then her face turned very red. She blurted, “I like to nurse.”

“’Course you do.”

“I like to—because it—feels good.” She hid her face. “I hadn’t ought to told you.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, but I hadn’t ought to of. It ain’t—decent, do you think? You won’t tell nobody?”

“’Course not.” Jim looked away from her and out the low doorway. The mist drifted casually down. Big drops slid down the tent slope like beads on a string. He continued to stare out of the tent, knowing instinctively that the girl wanted to look at him, and that she couldn’t until he looked away.

Her glance went over his face, a dark profile against the light. She saw the lumpy, bandaged shoulder. “What’s the matter ’th your arm?” she demanded.

He turned back, and this time her eyes held. “I got shot yesterday.”

“Oh. Does it hurt?”

“Little bit.”

“Just shot? Just up an’ shot by a guy?”

“Fight with some scabs. One of the owners potted me with a rifle.”

“You was fightin’? You?”

“Sure.”

Her eyes stayed wide. She looked fascinatedly at his face. “You don’t have no gun, do you?”

“No.”

She sighed. “Who was that fella come in the tent last night?”

“Young fellow? That was Dick. He’s a friend of mine.”

“He looks like a nice fella,” she said.

Jim smiled. “Sure, he’s O.K.”

“Kinda fresh, though,” she said. “Joey, that’s my hubby, he didn’t like it none. I thought he was a nice fella.”

Jim got to his knees and prepared to crawl out of the tent. “Had any breakfast?”

“Joey’s out gettin’ me some.” Her eyes were bolder now. “You goin’ to the funeral?”

“Sure.”

“I can’t go. Joey says I can’t.”

“It’s too wet and nasty.” Jim crawled out. “ ’Bye, kid. Take care o’ yourself.”

“ ’B-bye.” She paused. “Don’t tell nobody, will you?”

He looked back into the tent. “Don’t tell ’em what? Oh, about the baby. No, I won’t.”

“Y’see,” she explained, “you seen me that way, so I told you. I don’t know why.”

“I don’t either. ’Bye, kid.” He straightened up and walked away. Few men were moving about in the mist. Most of the strikers had taken their mush and gone back to the tents. The smoke from the stoves swirled low to the ground. A little wind blew the drizzle in a slow, drifting angle. As Jim went by London’s tent, he looked in and saw a dozen men standing about the coffin, all looking down at it. Jim started to go in, but he caught himself and walked to the white hospital tent down the row. There was a curious, efficient neatness inside the tent, a few medical supplies, bandage, bottles of iodine, a large jar of salts, a doctor’s bag, all arranged with precision on a big box.

Old Dan lay propped in a cot, and on the ground stood a wide-necked bottle for a urinal, and an old-fashioned chamber for a bed-pan. Old Dan’s beard had grown longer and fiercer, and his cheeks were more sunken. His eyes glinted fiercely at Jim. “So,” he said. “You finally come. You damn squirts get what you want, and then run out on a man.”

“How you feeling, Dan?” Jim asked placatingly.

“Who cares? That doctor’s a nice man; he’s the only nice one in this bunch of lice.”

Jim pulled up an apple box and sat down. “Don’t be mad, Dan. Look, I got it myself; got shot in the shoulder.”

“Served you damn well right,” Dan said darkly. “You punks can’t take care o’ yourselves. Damn wonder you ain’t all dead fallin’ over your feet.” Jim was silent. “Leave me lyin’ here,” Dan cried. “Think I don’t remember nothing. Up that apple tree all you could talk was strike, strike. And who starts the strike? You? Hell, no. I start it! Think I don’t know. I start it when I bust my hip. An’ then you leave me here alone.”

“We know it, Dan. All of us know it.”

“Then why don’t I get no say? Treat me like a Goddamn baby.” He gesticulated furiously, and then winced. “Goin’ to leave me here an’ the whole bunch go on a funeral! Nobody cares about me!”

Jim interposed, “That’s not so, Dan. We’re going to put you on a truck and take you right along, right at the head of the procession.”

Dan’s mouth dropped open, exposing his four long squirrel-teeth. His hands settled slowly to the bed. “Honest?” he said. “On a truck?”

“That’s what the chief said. He said you were the real leader, and you had to go.”

Dan looked very stern. His mouth became dignified and military. “He damn well ought to. He knows.” He stared down at his hands. His eyes grew soft and child-like. “I’ll lead ’em,” he said gently. “All the hundreds o’ years that’s what the workin’ stiffs needed, a leader. I’ll lead ’em through to the light. All they got to do is just what I say. I’ll say, ’You guys do this,’ an’ they’ll do it. An’ I’ll say, ’You lazy bastards get over there!’ an’ by Christ, they’ll git, ’cause I won’t have no lazy bastards. When I speak, they got to jump, right now.” And then he smiled with affection. “The poor damn rats,” he said. “They never had nobody to tell ’em what to do. They never had no real leader.”

“That’s right,” Jim agreed.

“Well, you’ll see some changes now,” Dan exclaimed. “You tell ’em I said so. Tell ’em I’m workin’ out a plan. I’ll be up and around in a couple days. Tell ’em just to have patience till I get out an’ lead ’em.”

“Sure I’ll tell ’em,” said Jim.

Dr. Burton came into the tent. “ ’Morning, Dan. Hello, Jim. Dan, where’s the man I told to take care of you?”

“He went out,” Dan said plaintively. “Went out to get me some breakfast. He never come back.”

“Want the pot, Dan?”

“No.”

“Did he give you the enema?”

“No.”

“Have to get you another nurse, Dan.”

“Say, Doc, this young punk here says I’m goin’ to the funeral on a truck.”

“That’s right, Dan. You can go if you want.”

Dan settled back, smiling. “It’s about time somebody paid some attention,” he said with satisfaction.

Jim stood up from his box. “See you later, Dan.” Burton went out with him. Jim asked, “Is he going nuts, Doc?”

“No. He’s an old man. He’s had a shock. His bones don’t knit very easily.”

“He talks crazy, though.”

“Well, the man I told to take care of him didn’t do it. He needs an enema. Constipation makes a man lightheaded sometimes; but he’s just an old man, Jim. You made him pretty happy. Better go in and see him often.”

“Do you think he’ll go to the funeral?”

“No. It’d hurt him, banging around in a truck. We’ll have to get around it some way. How is your arm feeling?”

“I’d forgot all about it.”

“Fine. Try not to get cold in it. It could be nasty, if you don’t take care of it. See you later. The men won’t shovel dirt in the toilets. We’re out of disinfectant. Simply have to get some disinfectant—anything.” He hurried away, muttering softly to himself as he went.

Jim looked about for someone to talk to. Those men who were in sight walked quickly through the drizzle from one tent to another. The slush in the streets was deep and black by now. One of the big brown squad tents stood nearby. Hearing voices inside, Jim went in. In the dim brown light he saw a dozen men squatting on their blankets. The talk died as he entered. The men looked up at him and waited. He reached in his pocket and brought out the bag of tobacco Mac had given him. “Hi,” he said. The men still waited. Jim went on, “I’ve got a sore arm. Will one of you guys roll me a cigarette?”

A man sitting in front of him held out a hand, took the bag and quickly made the cigarette. Jim took it and waved it to indicate the other men. “Pass it around. God knows they ain’t much in this camp.” The bag went from hand to hand. A stout little man with a short mustache said, “Sit down, kid, here, on my bed. Ain’t you the guy that got shot yesterday?”

Jim laughed. “I’m one of ’em. I’m not the dead one. I’m the one that got away.”

They laughed appreciatively. A man with a lantern-jaw and shiny cheek-bones broke up the laughter. “What they goin’ to bury the little guy today for?”

“Why not?” Jim asked.

“Yeah, but every’body waits three days.”

The stout little man blew a jet of smoke. “When you’re dead, you’re dead.”

Lantern-jaw said somberly, “S’pose he ain’t dead. S’pose he’s just in a kind of a state? S’pose we bury him alive. I think we ought to wait three days, like everybody else.”

A smooth, sarcastic voice answered. Jim looked at a tall man with a white, unlined forehead. “No, he isn’t sleeping,” the man said. “You can be very sure of that. If you knew what an undertaker does, you’d be sure he isn’t in any ‘state.’”

Lantern-jaw said, “He might just be. I don’t see no reason to take a chance.”

White-forehead scoffed. “Well, if he can sleep with his veins full of embalming fluid, he’s a God damn sound sleeper.”

“Is that what they do?”

“Yes it is. I knew a man who worked for an undertaker. He told me things you wouldn’t believe.”

“I rather not hear ’em,” said Lantern-jaw. “Don’t do no good to talk like that.”

The stout man asked, “Who was the little guy? I seen him try to get the scabs over, an’ then I seen ’im start over, an’ then, whang! Down he goes.”

Jim held his unlighted cigarette to his lips for a moment. “I knew him. He was a nice little guy. He was a kind of a labor leader.”

White-forehead said, “There seems to be a bounty on labor leaders. They don’t last long. Look at that rattlesnake, Sam. Says he’s a longshoreman. I bet he’s dead inside of six months.”

A dark boy asked, “How about London? Think they’ll get him like they got Dakin?”

Lantern-jaw: “No, by God. London can take care of himself. London’s got a head on him.”

White-forehead: “If London has a head on him, why in hell are we sitting around here? This strike’s screwy. Somebody’s making money out of it. When it gets tough somebody’ll sell out and leave the rest of us to take it on the chin.”

A broad, muscular man got to his knees and crouched there like an animal. His lips snarled away from his teeth and his eyes blazed with a red light. “That’s enough from you, wise guy,” he said. “I’ve knew London for a long time. If you’re gettin’ around to sayin’ London’s fixin’ to sell out, me an’ you’s goin’ round and round, right now! I don’t know nothin’ about this here strike. I’m doin’ it ’cause London says it’s O.K. But you lay off the smart cracks.”

White-forehead looked coldly at him. “You’re pretty hard, aren’t you?”

“Hard enough to beat the ass off you anyway, mister.”

“Lay off,” Jim broke in. “What do we want to get fighting for? If you guys want to fight, there’s going to be plenty of it for everybody.”

The square man grunted and sat back on his blankets. “Nobody’s sayin’ nothin’ behind London’s back when l’m there,” he said.

The little stout man looked at Jim. “How’d you get shot, kid?”

“Running,” said Jim. “I got winged running.”

“I heard a guy say you all beat hell out of some scabs.”

“That’s right.”

White-forehead said, “They say there are scabs coming in in trucks. And they say every scab has tear-gas bombs in his pocket.”

“That’s a lie,” Jim said quickly. “They always start lies like that to scare the guys off.”

White-forehead went on, “I heard that the bosses sent word to London that they won’t deal as long as there’s reds in camp.”

The broad, muscular man came to life again. “Well, who’s the reds? You talk more like a red than anybody I seen.”

White-forehead continued, “Well, I think that doctor’s a red. What’s a doctor want out here? He doesn’t get any pay. Well, who’s paying him? He’s getting his; don’t worry about that.” He looked wise. “Maybe he’s getting it from Moscow.”

Jim spat on the ground. His face was pale. He said quietly, “You’re the God-damned meanest son-of-a-bitch I ever saw! You make everybody out the kind of a rat you are.”

The square man got to his knees again. “The kid’s right,” he said. “He can’t kick hell out of you, but I can. And by Christ I will if you don’t keep that toilet seat of yours shut.”

White-forehead got up slowly and went to the entrance. He turned back. “All right, you fellows, but you watch. Pretty soon London’ll tell you to settle the strike. An’ then he’ll get a new car, or a steady job. You just watch.”

The square man leaped to his knees again, but White-forehead dodged out of the tent.

Jim asked, “Who is that guy? Does he sleep in here?”

“Hell, no. He just come in a little while ago.”

“Well did any of you guys ever see him before?”

They shook their heads. “Not me.”

“I never.”

Jim cried, “By Christ! Then they sent him in.”

The fat man asked, “Who sent him?”

“The owners did. He’s sent in here to talk like that an’ get you guys suspecting London. Don’t you see? It splits the camp up. Couple you guys better see he gets run out of camp.”

The square man climbed to his feet. “I’ll do it myself,” he said. “They’s nothin’ I’d admire better.” He went out of the tent.

Jim said, “You got to watch out. Guys like that’ll give you the idea the strike’s just about through. Don’t listen to lies.”

The fat man gazed out of the tent. “It ain’t a lie that the food’s all gone,” he said. “It ain’t a lie that boiled cow food ain’t much of a breakfast. It don’t take no spies to spread that.”

“We got to stick,” Jim cried. “We simply got to stick. If we lose this, we’re sunk; and not only us, either. Every other working stiff in the country gets a little of it.”

The fat man nodded. “It all fits together,” he agreed. “There ain’t nothing separate. Guys think they want to get something soft for themselves, but they can’t without everybody gets it.”

A middle-aged man who had been lying down toward the rear of the tent sat up. “You know the trouble with workin’ men?” he asked. “Well, I’ll tell you. They do too God-damn much talkin’. If they did more sluggin’ an’ less arguin’, they’d get someplace.” He stopped. The men in the tent listened. From outside there came the sound of a little bustling, the mutter of footsteps, the murmur of voices, the sound of people, penetrating as an odor, and soft. The men in the tent sat still and listened. The sound of people grew a little louder. Footsteps were slushing in the mud. A group walked past the tent.

Jim stood up and walked to the entrance just as a head was thrust in. “They’re goin’ to bring out the coffin. Come on, you guys.” Jim stepped out between the tent-flaps. The mist still fell, blowing sideways, drifting like tiny, light snowflakes. Here and there the loose canvas of a tent moved soddenly in the wind. Jim looked down the street. The news had traveled. Out of the tents men and women came. They moved slowly in together and converged on the platform. And as their group became more and more compact, the sound of their many voices blended into one voice, and the sound of their footsteps became a great restlessness. Jim looked at the faces. There was a blindness in the eyes. The heads were tipped back as though they sniffed for something. They drew in about the platform and crowded close.

Out of London’s tent six men came, bearing the box. There were no handles on the coffin. Each pair of men locked hands underneath, and bore the burden on their forearms. They hesitated jerkily, trying to get in step, and having established the swinging rhythm, moved slowly through the slush toward the platform. Their heads were bare, and the drops of moisture stood out on their hair like grey dust. The little wind raised a corner of the soiled flag, and dropped it, and raised it again. In front of the casket a lane opened through the people, and the bearers moved on, their faces stiff with ceremonial solemnity, necks straight, chins down. The people on the edge of the lane stared at the box. They grew quiet during the movement of its passage, and when it was by whispered nervously to one another. A few men surreptitiously crossed themselves. The bearers reached the platform. The leading pair laid the end on the planks, and the others pushed the box forward until it rested safely.

Jim hurried to London’s tent. London and Mac were there. “Jesus, I wish you’d do the talkin’, I can’t talk.”

“No. You’ll do fine. ’Member what I told you. Try to get ’em answering you. Once you get responses started, you’ve got ’em. Regular old camp-meeting stuff; but it sure works on a crowd.”

London looked frightened. “You do it, Mac. Honest to God I can’t. I didn’t even know the guy.”

Mac looked disgusted. “Well, you get up there and make a try. If you fall down, I’ll be there to pick it up.”

London buttoned the collar of his blue shirt and turned up the flaps against his throat. He buttoned his old black serge coat over his stomach and patted it down. His hand went up to the tonsured hair and brushed it down, back and sides; and then he seemed to shake himself down to a tight, heavy solemnity. The lean-faced Sam came in and stood beside him. London stepped out of the tent, great with authority. Mac and Jim and Sam fell in behind him, but London walked alone, down the muddy street, and his little procession followed him. The heads of the people turned as he approached. The tissue of soft speech stopped. A new aisle opened to allow the leader to pass, and the heads turned with him as he passed.

London climbed up on the platform. He was alone, over the heads of the people. The faces pointed up at him, the eyes expressionless as glass. For a moment London looked down at the pine coffin, and then his shoulders squared. He seemed reluctant to break the breathing silence. His voice was remote and dignified. “I come up here to make some kind of speech,” he said. “And I don’t know no speeches.” He paused and looked out over the upturned faces. “This little guy got killed yesterday. You all seen it. He was comin’ over to our side, an’ somebody plugged him. He wasn’t doin’ no harm to nobody.” Again he stopped, and his face grew puzzled. “Well, what can a guy say? We’re goin’ to bury him. He’s one of our own guys, an’ he got shot. What can I say? We’re goin’ to march out and bury him—all of us. Because he was one of us. He was kind of like all of us. What happened to him is like to happen to any guy here.” He stopped, and his mouth stayed open. “I—I don’t know no speeches,” he said uneasily. “There’s a guy here that knowed this little fellow. I’m goin’ to let him talk.” His head turned slowly to where Mac stood. “Come on up, Mac. Tell ’em about the little guy.”

Mac broke out of his stiffness and almost threw himself on the platform. His shoulders weaved like a boxer’s. “Sure I’ll tell ’em,” he cried passionately. “The guy’s name was Joy. He was a radical! Get it? A radical. He wanted guys like you to have enough to eat and a place to sleep where you wouldn’t get wet. He didn’t want nothing for himself. He was a radical!” Mac cried. “D’ye see what he was? A dirty bastard, a danger to the government. I don’t know if you saw his face, all beat to rags. The cops done that because he was a radical. His hands were broke, an’ his jaw was broke. One time he got that jaw broke in a picket line. They put him in the can. Then a doctor come an’ looked at him. ‘I won’t treat a Goddamn red,’ the doctor says. So Joy lies there with a busted jaw. He was dangerous—he wanted guys like you to get enough to eat.” His voice was growing softer and softer, and his eyes watched expertly, saw faces becoming tense, trying to catch the words of his softening tone, saw the people leaning forward. “I knew him.” Suddenly he shouted, “What are you going to do about it? Dump him in a mud-hole, cover him with slush. Forget him.”

A woman in the crowd began to sob hysterically. “He was fightin’ for you,” Mac shouted. “You goin’ to forget it?”

A man in the crowd yelled, “No, by Christ!”

Mac hammered on, “Goin’ to let him get killed, while you lie down and take it?”

A chorus this time, “No-o-o!”

Mac’s voice dropped into a sing-song. “Goin’ to dump him in the mud?”

“No-oo.” The bodies swayed a little bit.

“He fought for you. Are you going to forget him?”

“No-o-o.”

“We’re going to march through town. You going to let any damn cops stop us?”

The heavy roar, “No-oo.” The crowd swayed in the rhythm. They poised for the next response.

Mac broke the rhythm, and the break jarred them. He said quietly, “This little guy is the spirit of all of us. We won’t pray for him. He don’t need prayers. And we don’t need prayers. We need clubs!”

Hungrily the crowd tried to restore the rhythm. “Clubs,” they said. “Clubs.” And then they waited in silence.

“O.K.,” Mac said shortly. “We’re going to throw the dirty radical in the mud, but he’s going to stay with us, too. God help anybody that tries to stop us.” Suddenly he got down from the platform, leaving the crowd hungry and irritated. Eyes looked wondering into other eyes.

London climbed down from the platform. He said to the bearers, “Put him in Albert Johnson’s truck. We’ll get goin’ in a few minutes now.” He followed Mac, who was working his way out of the crowd.

Dr. Burton fell in beside Mac when he was clear of the bunched people. “You surely know how to work them, Mac,” he said quietly. “No preacher ever brought people to the mourners’ bench quicker. Why didn’t you keep it up awhile? You’d’ve had them talking in tongues and holy-rolling in a minute.”

Mac said irritably, “Quit sniping at me, Doc. I’ve got a job to do, and I’ve got to use every means to do it.”

“But where did you learn it, Mac?”

“Learn what?”

“All those tricks.”

Mac said tiredly, “Don’t try to see so much, Doc. I wanted them mad. Well, they’re mad. What do you care how it’s done?”

“I know how it’s done,” said Burton. “I just wondered how you learned. By the way, old Dan’s satisfied not to go. He decided when we lifted him.”

London and Jim caught up with them. Mac said, “You better leave a big guard here, London.”

“O.K. I’ll tell Sam to stay and keep about a hundred. That sure was a nice speech, Mac.”

“I didn’t have no time to figure it out ahead. We better get movin’ before these guys cool off. Once they get goin’ they’ll be O.K. But we don’t want ’em just to stand around and cool off.”

They turned and looked back. Through the crowd the bearers came swinging, carrying the box on their forearms. The clot of people broke up and straggled behind. The light mist fell. To the west a rent in the cloud showed a patch of pale blue sky, and a high, soundless wind tore the clouds apart as they watched.

“It might be a nice day yet,” Mac said. He turned to Jim. “I nearly forgot about you. How do you feel?”

“All right.”

“Well, I don’t think you better walk all that distance. You ride on the truck.”

“No. I’ll walk. The guys wouldn’t like it if I rode.”

“I thought of that,” said Mac. “We’ll have the pallbearers ride too. That’ll make it all right. We all set, London?”

“All set”