Harold had put down his newspaper, the Farragut Express, and was also staring. “The nigras is back in school,” he said. “Right now. All but a couple.”

Joan took a bite from her chocolate doughnut.

“Mr. McDaniel, over to the Messenger, gone up to Simon’s Hill,” she said, “and walked ’em all down, right through the streets this morning. Then he got into a fight with”—she hesitated—“with some folks, and he’s in the hospital. Hurt pretty bad, I hear. Some busted ribs and a lot of what they call internal injuries. What’d Viola tell you, Harold, about what else?”

“Well, I guess he might lose one of his eyes.”

“Such a smart man!”

“Sure would hate to be that smart,” Harold said. “Look where you land!”

“Who was it?” Adam asked suddenly. “I mean, that he got into the fight with?”

“Can’t say for sure,” Joan said, winking. “Old Ollie managed to arrest three—Ted Manning and two others, I forget. He claimed there was at least fifteen, but they got away. Ted and them said they never touched Mr. McDaniel and they can’t remember who did, either, or even who else was there.”

“What about McDaniel, though? He should remember.”

“Yeah, but he ain’t conscious yet,” Harold said. “What they did was, they put him under dope right away. But he ought to be coming out of it any time, that’s what Viola said.” The toothless man chuckled. “I expect there’s a few people kind of worried along about now. You suppose that might be right, young fella?”

Adam put down a fifty-cent piece and started for the door.

It opened before he could reach it.

Bart Carey, Phil Dongen and Lorenzo Niesen came inside.

“There he is,” Niesen said, in a high-angry voice. “Right there.”

“Keep your mouth shut,” Carey said and walked up to Adam.

He held out the newspaper he had been carrying. “I guess you seen this,” he said. “There was a shipment sent to Higgins’ Drugstore and some others.”

Adam said nothing, but took the paper. It was, he saw, one of the sensational New York dailies.

The large type on page one read: FIREBRAND IN THE SOUTH. And underneath, in smaller print: See Page 16 for Shocking Story of Adam Cramer, Young Terrorist Who Seeks to Defy U.S. Gov’t.

He looked up at the unsmiling faces and turned to page sixteen of the paper.

A quarter of the page was filled by a poor photograph of Adam on the courthouse steps, surrounded by a large crowd. It had been taken during his first speech.

Beneath the photograph was the title again, with the by-line: Edward Driscoll.

He turned the page and was confronted with a second photograph, showing him and Preston Haller together. He remembered when they’d had it made—on Venice Pier, in one of those silly snapshot booths, almost two years ago; they’d been drunk.