“The hell they are,” said the roundsman
aggressively. But Willy Cameron was staring
through the smoke from his pipe at the crowd.
“They might do it, for a while,” he said
thoughtfully. “There’s a tremendous
foreign population in the mill towns around, isn’t
there? Does anybody in the crowd own a revolver?
Or know how to use it if he has one.”
“I’ve got one,” said the insurance
agent. “Don’t know how it would
work. Found my wife nailing oilcloth with it
the other day.”
“Very well. If we’re a representative
group, they wouldn’t need a battery of eight-inch
guns, would they?”
A little silence fell on the group. Around them
the city went about its business; the roar of the
day had softened to muffled night sounds, as though
one said: “The city sleeps. Be still.”
The red glare of the mills was the fire on the hearth.
The hills were its four protecting walls. And
the night mist covered it like a blanket.
“Here’s one representative of the plain
people,” said Mr. Hendricks, “who is going
home to get some sleep. And tomorrow I’ll
buy me a gun, and if I can keep the children out of
the yard I’ll learn to use it.”
For a long time after he went home that night Willy
Cameron paced the floor of his upper room, paced it
until an irate boarder below hammered on his chandelier.
Jinx followed him, moving sedately back and forth,
now and then glancing up with idolatrous eyes.
Willy Cameron’s mind was active and not particularly
coordinate. The Cardews and Lily; Edith Boyd
and Louis Akers; the plain people; an army marching
to the city to loot and burn and rape, and another
army meeting it, saying: “You shall not
pass”; Abraham Lincoln, Russia, Lily.
His last thought, of course, was of Lily Cardew.
He had neglected to cover Jinx, and at last the dog
leaped on the bed and snuggled close to him.
He threw an end of the blanket over him and lay there,
staring into the darkness. He was frightfully
lonely. At last he fell asleep, and the March
wind, coming in through the open window, overturned
a paper leaning against his collar box, on which he
had carefully written:
Have suit pressed.
Buy new tie.
Shirts from laundry.
Going home that night Mr. Hendricks met Edith Boyd,
and accompanied her for a block or two. At his
corner he stopped.
“How’s your mother, Edith?”
It was Mr. Hendricks’ business to know his ward
thoroughly.
“About the same. She isn’t really
sick, Mr. Hendricks. She’s just low spirited,
but that’s enough. I hate to go home.”
Hendricks hesitated.
“Still, home’s a pretty good place,”
he said. “Especially for a pretty girl.”
There was unmistakable meaning in his tone, and she
threw up her head.
“I’ve got to get some pleasure out of
life, Mr. Hendricks.”
