It seemed easier this time; they were familiar with the ground and the extent of the grove of trees. They came to a point where they could see the dark bulk of the house, a dim light in one of its upper windows, a little window like a bathroom’s; and all at once Eddie was struck by the panic, the aversion and fright he had felt before. His feet grew leaden, his palms sweated. A cloying tightness shut off his breath.

“What’s the matter with you?” Skip had paused; by starshine Eddie could see him looking back.

“I . . . Just a minute.” He sucked in a deep breath and tried to force himself to relax, tried to force the freezing scare out of his mind. He tried to blank out all thought, since the panic seemed rooted in thinking. But through his mind poured memories of other times, things that he and Skip had done. Most of the jobs had come off all right. They’d sneaked tires and junk off wrecking lots, lanterns and fusees and tools out of freight yards, even cigarettes, a whole huge carton of them, from a half-plundered freight car on a siding. They’d stuck up old man Fedderson’s candy shop . . . twice. Stockings over their heads, cap pistols. It had been fun. For God’s sake, why did he have to feel like this now?

Was it because of the times things hadn’t turned out okay? Like when he rolled the bum in the alley, a dead-end passage behind a garage and a bar and a warehouse, and the patrol car had turned in on him with its lights blazing?

Or the time Skip had whistled from the back yard, the killdeer call, and he’d gone and Skip had been white and sweating. Skip had borrowed a couple of bucks and had walked to the corner and had been picked up right there, still within sight of the house. Later that day Eddie found out that Skip had been caught robbing a market storeroom of a case of whiskey.

Was it the failures that drained him now of strength?

Skip was standing still, a little way off. “What are you doing there? Are you . . . For Chrissakes, are you getting ready to chicken out on me?”

Eddie’s stumbling answer died in his throat.

Skip took a lithe step toward him. “If you are, goddammit, get on with it. Faint. Or drop dead. Or start running. Don’t just stand there with your legs locked together. Why in hell should I care what you do? I can’t think why I needed you in the first place.”

“You said . . . if something went wrong——”

“It is. It is,” Skip said wryly. “You’re punking out just like Unc said you would.”