He got halfway across the lawn when a group of boys walked up. Hank Kitchen was among them.

“Hi, Mr. McDaniel,” Hank said.

“Hello, Hank.”

Suddenly a boy cried “Yay!” and others cried “Yay!” and soon a large group of children were shouting this word, and smiling.

Tom gestured and did not, this once, try to fight the good feeling that had been coming upon him.

He blushed and walked quickly away from the lawn, never looking back, into the streets, far from the crowds.

And now what? he thought. Where do you go now?

He cut diagonally across the street, walking vaguely in the direction of his automobile, which he had parked because there would not have been room inside for all the kids.

He felt the weariness of hours spent awake last night, and thought—I’ll sleep a while; no, first I’ll call Jack; then I’ll sleep a while. Then, afterwards, I’ll phone up Verne and give him my resignation; then I’ll get in touch with Lubin. Lubin wants me, and probably I’ll do just fine with a paper like his; and—

“McDaniel!”

Tom blinked away the heavy, tired thoughts, and turned to face the stunted, shirt-sleeved, red and trembling figure of Lorenzo­ Niesen. Next to the Jumpin’ Preacher was Bart Carey.

“Yes?” Tom said.

“You got anythin’ to say?” Lorenzo Niesen glanced at Carey and cocked his head.

“About what?”

“You know what.”

Tom flicked his cigarette away and started past the little man.

Carey moved to block him.

“We seen you, McDaniel,” he said. “And we want an explanation.

Tom’s throat went dry: his heart began to throb. From the corners of his eyes, he could see other figures approaching. Mabel Dodge; he recognized her. Dongen. Simpson. Holliman. The bullnecked one in the grocery store, Manners, Manning—Ted Manning.

“We’re a-waiting,” Carey said. He seemed to tower there beside Niesen. A giant of a man, with silly little spectacles perched on his nose, and a sweat-soaked nylon shirt.

“Please get out of my way,” Tom said, ashamed at the sudden weakness that had come upon him.

More people were closing in, he saw; moving slowly, tentatively, about him.

Carey stepped aside. Tom walked past him and reached the car. He was about to open the door when a hand closed on his shoulder and pulled him around.

“You just hold on.”

Tom looked at the man, then at the fifteen others who had circled the area. Men, mostly, but also a few women. To the right was a pretty girl of twenty-five or so, someone he could not remember having seen before.

Their eyes were filled with hatred. Perhaps it was this (he hoped it was!) that terrified him so: this concentrated hatred, turned directly onto him.

“Look,” he said, “what is it you want, Carey?”

“An explanation,” the large man said.