The Reverend Lorenzo Niesen was the first to arrive. His felt hat was sodden, the inner band caked with filth; his suspenders hung loosely over his two-dollar striped shirt; his trousers were shapeless—yet he was proud of his appearance, and it was a vicious, thrusting pride. Were someone to hand him a check for five thousand dollars, he would not alter any part of his attire. It was country-honest, as he himself was. Whoever despised dirt despised likewise the common people, God’s favorites.

Was there soap in Bethlehem?

Did the Apostles have nail files and lotions?

He sat down on the grass, glared at the bright lights of the Reo motion picture theatre across the street, and began to fan himself with his hat. Little strands of silver hair lifted and fell, lifted and fell, as he fanned.

At six thirty-five, Bart Carey and Phillip Dongen appeared. They nodded at Lorenzo and sat down near him.

“Well, it’s hot.”

Others drifted into the area, some singly, some in groups.

“Hot!”

By six forty, over one hundred and fifty residents of Caxton were standing on the cement walk or sitting on the grass, waiting.

“You see ’em this morning?”

Fifty more showed up in the next ten minutes.

“Christ, yes.”

At seven a bell was struck and a number of cars screeched, halted, discharging teen-age children. They crowded at the steps of the courthouse.

It was quiet.

Ten minutes passed. Then, a young man in a dark suit walked across the empty street. He nodded at the people, made his way through the aisle that parted for him, and climbed to the top step. He stood there with his back to the courthouse door.

“That him?” Phil Dongen whispered.

Bart Carey said, “Yeah.”

Lorenzo Niesen was silent. He studied the young man, trying to decide whether or not he approved. Awful green, he thought. Too good of a clothes on him. Like as not a Northerner.

I don’t know.

The crowd’s voice rose to a murmuring, then fell again as the young man in the dark suit lifted his hands in the air.

“Folks,” he said, in a soft, almost gentle voice, “my name is Adam Cramer. Some of you know me by now and you know what I’m here for. To those I haven’t had a chance to talk with yet, let me say this: I’m from Washington, D.C., the Capital, and I’m in Caxton to help the people fight the trouble that’s come up.”

He smiled suddenly and took off his coat. “I only wish one thing, though,” he said. “I wish school started in January. I mean, it is hot. Aren’t you hot?”

Hesitant, cautious laughter followed.