Dongen had lived in Caxton for sixteen years; for sixteen years he had operated the Ace Hardware Store, on Broad Street, averaging sixty dollars a week. It was more than enough for him. He had helped Bart Carey on the F.C.G. and was violently opposed to integration: It gave him something to be against; something to occupy thoughts that would otherwise be diffuse, scattering cloudlike over the daily business of living. His wife Frieda shared his views, conversationally; but they meant nothing to her.

“That’s the Green kid,” Niesen said, “up there leadin’ them.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s about what you’d expect.”

“Yeah. By God.”

The two men stood quietly, staring; then, when the little parade had passed, they fell in behind, walking in cadence, not knowing why they were following.

“You gonna be at the courthouse tonight?” Dongen asked.

“What for?”

“Got a man in town says he’s gonna stop all this shit.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. He’s giving a speech.”

“Part of the thing you fellas have, you and Bart?”

“No.”

They walked. . . .

It was creepy, in a way, Ella thought: odd. She had never seen so many Negroes in the street before. Maybe some of them would occupy the same room—which she didn’t want, in a sense, and, in another, craved. It was exciting; that was certainly true. She was dressed in the white blouse and dark skirt she’d ironed the night before, and her face was scrupulously prepared—just a touch, an invisible touch, of make-up.

She walked with Lucy, but they didn’t talk. Once in a while, Lucy would look back and giggle, but they didn’t talk.

They soon outdistanced the little troupe, crossed the wide lawn, mingled with the crowd of students, and forgot about the news.

Somebody said, “Hi, kid.” Ella turned and saw Hank Kitchen. Her heart jumped a couple of times, settled.

“Hi,” she said, dispassionately.

They looked at one another for a while. It wasn’t possible, but Hank seemed bigger, huskier than before. He had a scrubbed and youthful look about him. His clothes were perfect. The flannels pressed and creased, the white shirt crackling, shoes shined to brilliance, hair exactly three-quarters of an inch high, squared off as though with a ruler.

“See you,” he said, and vaulted up the stairs.

Lucy giggled again. “You going to go with him this semester?”

“I don’t know,” Ella said. “The way he’s been acting; you know.”

“Sure,” Lucy said, “I know. And this new fellow, too.”

They both took one more look over their shoulders, saw the band of Negroes moving toward the grass, and went up the stairs and into the dim and echoing hall of the school.

Harley Paton watched quietly. There was no emotion on his face, though laughter-lines webbing out from his eyes managed to give him a perpetually pleasant look. However, the feeling in his heart was not pleasant.