They took Deac around back, tied him to the same bush, and returned to their places on the porch, Mister Leland sitting on the steps beside Bobby-Joe, and just in front of his father who leaned against his post. No one greeted them—they all knew each other too well for that—they simply began to talk, not about Tucker Caliban, but about the weather, trying to decide if it would be a nice day. They talked about such things until Wallace Bedlow came, not riding his orange horse as on the day before—I hope he ain’t shot it—rather lumbering toward them from the north of town on foot, wearing his white coat and a good pair of pants of thin material that rustled in the breeze of his stride. He carried an old cardboard suitcase, and upon arriving at the porch, only nodded, saying nothing, and set down the suitcase beside the bus stop sign, at the end of the porch away from the men.

The men eyed him furtively, Bobby-Joe with a touch of contempt, but Mister Leland’s father was the first to speak, assuming, in Mister Harper’s absence, with the tacit consent of the others, the position of spokesman. “How do, Wallace.”

Wallace Bedlow turned and smiled, as though his presence had just been discovered, as though he had not known they were watching him. “How do, Mister Harry.”

The boy’s father took a step away from the post toward the Negro. “Where you going? Into New Marsails?”

“Yes, sir.” The smile had fled his face suddenly with a deathlike completeness. Mister Leland was thinking that Wallace Bedlow had used sir: Like Papa is older than him, which ain’t so because when Wallace Bedlow takes off his hat, you can see crinkly gray hairs. Still he calls Papa sir the same’s I’d call him or my papa sir.

“Staying long, Wallace?” His father spoke as if these questions were not important, as if no one besides himself listened, examined every word.

“Yes, sir.”

“How long?” There was an amount of accusation in the question.

“Don’t reckon I’ll be back, sir.” Wallace Bedlow answered with more defiance than seemed necessary.

“What?”

“I don’t reckon I’ll be back, sir.” He eyed all the men. “I’m waiting for the bus and going into New Marsails and I don’t reckon I’ll be back…at all.”

“You moving into the Northside?” The Northside was where New Marsails’ Negroes lived. Mister Leland had seen that when they took the bus to go to the movies. The bus had to go through the Northside to get downtown.

“No, sir.” Wallace Bedlow’s face seemed to die still more.

“Where you going?” His father almost whispered. Mister Leland heard someone sigh.