No one ever looked at Gene McCarthy that way.

At some point, Walli realized, he and Beep had quietly dropped their TRAITOR banner to the floor.

Bobby was speaking about poverty. “In the Mississippi Delta I have seen children with distended stomachs and facial sores from starvation.” He raised his voice. “I don’t think that’s acceptable!

“Indians living on their bare and meager reservations have so little hope for the future that the greatest cause of death among teenagers is suicide. I believe we can do better!

“The people of the black ghettoes listen to ever greater promises of equality and justice as they sit in the same decaying schools and huddle in the same filthy rooms warding off the rats. I am convinced that America can do better than that!”

He was building up to the climax, Walli saw. “I come here today to ask for your help over the next few months,” Bobby said. “If you, too, believe that poverty is indecent, give me your support.”

They yelled that they would.

“If you, too, think it is unacceptable that children starve in our country, work for my campaign.”

They hurrahed again.

“Do you believe, as I do, that America can do better?”

They roared their agreement.

“Then join me—and America will do better!”

He stepped back from the lectern, and the crowd went wild.

Walli looked at Beep. He could tell that she felt the way he did. “He’s going to win, isn’t he?” said Walli.

“Yes,” said Beep. “He’s going all the way to the White House.”

• • •

Bobby’s ten-day tour took him to thirteen states. At the end of the last day, he and his entourage boarded a plane in Phoenix to fly to New York. By then George Jakes was sure Bobby was going to be president.

The public response had been overwhelming. Thousands mobbed Bobby at airports. They crowded the streets to watch his motorcade go by, Bobby always standing on the backseat of a convertible, with George and others sitting on the floor holding his legs so that the people could not pull him out of the car. Gangs of children ran alongside shouting: “Bobby!” Whenever the car stopped, people flung themselves at him. They ripped off his cuff links and his tie pins and the buttons on his suits.

On the plane, Bobby sat down and emptied his pockets. Out came a snowstorm of paper like confetti. George picked up some of the scraps from the carpet. They were notes, dozens of them, neatly written and carefully folded small and thrust into Bobby’s pockets. They begged him to attend college graduations or visit sick children in city hospitals, and they told him that prayers were being said for him in suburban homes, and candles lit in country churches.

Bobby took off his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves, as was his habit. That was when George noticed his arms. Bobby had hairy forearms, but that was not what struck George. His hands were swollen and his skin was webbed with angry red scratches. It happened when the crowds were touching him, George realized. They did not want to injure him, but they adored him so much that they drew blood.