Clinton often touched his middle section to assure himself that his money belt still rode there, safe on his belly. The money belt contained almost three hundred dollars, which was about half of what he had saved in a year of waiting on customers at the White Tower in Cleveland. One of the small economies which enabled him to accumulate this money was in the matter of clothing: he was able to make do with old ones because he had not grown any, not one inch in all that time. Annabel attributed this to the early use of cigarettes. But Clinton’s own belief was this: that the power of normal adolescent growth in him had distributed itself in all the parts of his body, with nothing left over for height. Indeed, through no special efforts of his own, his slight body had developed a fine young network of muscle. The surprise appearance of biceps caused him no little pride: every now and then he would flex them, glance down at himself, and look up reassured. In fact, he wore all these new qualities of body—hard stomach, sturdy legs, breadth of shoulder and strength of neck—with all the self-conscious pleasure of a dandy who has just purchased himself a shimmering new silk suit. Though Clinton was no athlete and did not exercise himself, the movements of his body had begun to offer him this new pleasure: a sense of its own normal powers.

Now, if you were a passenger on the back seat of this bus, and you happened to look at Clinton Williams, happened to watch him move down the aisle toward his seat, small, strong, clear of skin, determination in his aspect, you would not know for certain if he were fourteen or twenty. His skin was of an ivory color made incandescent by youth, and over all was that vague wash of blue one finds on the faces of habitual dreamers. In this fair setting, surrounded by their dark brown lashes, his quick eyes took on a quality of deep wonder, of perpetual surprise. But in spite of this innocence of feature, it was a disturbing face: for intense seriousness, in one so young, can be an awesome thing to look upon.

Clinton had wished, ever since he got on board yesterday in Cleveland, that some fellow passenger would ask him where he was bound for. Then he would hear himself say it out loud: Key Bonita. To his ear it sounded like the most faraway place in this country: Key Bonita. He wondered what reaction this name would get from a person who was on his way to some ordinary place like Pensacola or Tampa. They would look at him for a moment, impressed, and then ask him where such a place was located. “Oh, it’s just an island off the coast of Florida,” he would explain it in an offhand way—“an old pirate hangout. My brother got in a jam down there, and he sent for me to help him out.”