He said, “All right. No, I won’t. He won’t go fast anyway.” He closed the stair door and tramped into the kitchen. The candle-light revealed a flat dish of oil pickles and two slices of bread, on the kitchen table. His mother always left something for him when he was out in the evening. “Lijy likes a snack,” she told people. He spooned up a generous portion of the limp, syrupy flakes and spread them upon one slice of the dark bread, then plastered the other slice over it. The sandwich tasted very good … if he were in the army, he could have no late evening snacks. Though his mother might, and probably would, send him jars of pickles whenever possible.

He held the sandwich clamped in his mouth while he thumbed through the heap of clean, ironed clothing. He folded the night-shirt and jammed it into his coat pocket. Then, food in hand, he went back to the front room.

The single flame of his little white torch made the familiar place waver with a calm mystery. Over in the corner was the tall “dress form” which his mother used in her work. It had a quilted bosom and quilted hips, with wire mesh in the back and below. Saucers of pins and the flat snake of a measuring tape lay before it like votive offerings. The figured bombazine for Mrs. Bedford Fanning’s new Sunday dress weighted down the sewing table. He thought, “I’ll wager it takes a lot of yards to cover her up.”

In the opposite corner of the room stood Elijah’s Vincennes musket, with a saber bayonet fixed. He set his candle on the window sill and picked up the heavy gun. “Right shoulder shift—arms!” he whispered, and juggled the musket about. He felt his knees stiffening, the small of his back harsh and tight. He about-faced, the gun across his shoulder. The dress form loomed before him, a headless creature which yet managed to seem monstrous and smug. He grunted: “… Shoot the guts out of you, you rebel son of a bitch!” The dress form waited, humbly, for him to shoot. Then he felt silly, and slammed the bayoneted gun back into its corner. What if someone had been walking home, late, and happened to look through the window—

A thick book on the mantel-shelf: he took that, and blew out the candle. He went out to the carryall, book in his grasp, munching the last of his cucumber-pickle feast. Twin tulip trees beside the fence rustled sleepily.