“Well, what do you think, that those nine old men on the bench just happened to sort of get the idea of integrating schools? They didn’t. The Jew politicians behind the NAACP started it, Mr. Shipman, and they put the pressure on. But they were a group, you understand? They were organized. I figure that if a bunch of Communists—whose aim, I don’t have to tell you, is to mongrelize and destroy the United States—if they can create a law, then I figure a bunch of white Americans can get it changed!”

There was a knock at the door. Shipman stared for a moment, then swiveled his head. “Yes? What is it?”

Edna Mennen came into the room. She did not look at Adam Cramer. “I thought I ought to remind you that you’re supposed to be practicing with the dogs,” she said. “I got Lucas to interrupt his work. He’s waiting.”

“Tell him to stop waiting,” Shipman said, after a momentary pause. “Or, here—tell him to work the dogs himself. He knows more about it than I do, anyway.”

“All right.”

“And, Mrs. Mennen—I don’t want to be disturbed for a while. No phone calls.”

The old woman took a breath. “All right,” she said, and looked at Adam Cramer and went out.

“Close the door!” Shipman waited for the footsteps to recede. “Okay,” he said, “what you say may make some sense—in theory, anyway—but what can we do?”

The young man smiled. “A great deal,” he said. “If you’re serious about wanting to stop integration—”

“But it’s going to start tomorrow,” Shipman said, remembering.

“I know. It can start; let it. That’s even better. But, as I say, if you’re serious—then you’ll listen to what I have to tell you. Because there is a way.”

“Yes?”

The young man walked over to the window and stood quietly for a time. “Mr. Shipman,” he said, “I don’t want you to think that I’m encouraging you on something you don’t really feel. Are you seriously concerned?”

“Of course I am. Always have been. But you haven’t said anything yet. When you say something, I’ll listen.”

“All right, that’s fair enough. I spoke of SNAP—”

“What?”

“The Society of National American Patriots.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, we have no state charter here; we’ve operated on a nonprofit basis since the beginning, doing what we could. Now here’s the thing. If we’re able to get a charter, and funds for promotion, we can organize the people of Caxton into a fighting force. We can weld the strength of the town together into one strong unit, and—in different ways; in ways I’ll explain—we can show the Supreme Court that desegregation is never going to work in the South.”