The circle of people moved in, watching. Some of the men peeled away and approached the car. Their throats were knotted. Their hands were clenched into fists.

A small white man with a crushed felt hat said, “Nobody gave you no permission to drive through Caxton, niggers. They’s a highway to Hollister.”

“Well, sure,” Ginger said, “I know that. But—”

“But nothin’. How come you in our street, gettin’ it all messed up?”

The two boys were rocking the car violently now. Pete Beauchamp, aged seven, woke up and began to cry.

Ginger looked at the small man in the crushed hat. “What’s the matter with you folks?” he said. “We ain’t done nothin’. We ain’t done a thing.”

“You got our street all dirty,” the small man said.

Ginger felt his heart beating faster. Harriet was staring with wide eyes, shuddering.

“Awright,” Ginger said. “We sorry. We won’t come this way no more.”

“That’s what you say,” another man said. “I figure you lying.”

“I don’t tell nobody lies, mister,” Ginger said. He was trying very hard to hold the anger that was clawing up from his stomach. Dimly he heard a voice calling, “Stop it. Stop all this, leave them alone!” but it seemed distant and unreal. “You all just please get out the way, now, and we’ll be gone.”

“You tellin’ us?” a boy shouted. “Hey, the coon’s tellin’ us what to do.”

Two more young whites leaped onto the running boards. The Ford rocked violently, back and forth.

“State your business here,” the small man said.

“I did,” Ginger said. “I told you, we trying to get home.”

“That’s a crock of plain shit!”

Ginger Beauchamp felt it all explode inside him. He clashed the gear lever into first and said, “You all drunk or crazy, one. I’m driving through here. If you don’t want to get yourself run over, move out the way!”

The boy in levis and T-shirt reached in suddenly and pulled the key out of the ignition. Ginger grabbed him, but a fist shot into his neck. He gagged.

Young men with knives began to stab the tires of the Ford, then.

Others threw pebbles into the window. The sharp, hard little stones struck Ginger’s face and Harriet’s, and the children in the back seat were all awake now, shrilling.

“You crazy!” Ginger shouted. “Gimme back my key!”

“Come and get it, black man!”

“Sure, come on out and get it!”

A stone glanced off Ginger’s forehead. He felt a small trickle of warm blood. Now the circle had engulfed the car, and the people were all shouting and yelling, and the Ford was lifted off its wheels.

“Maybe you learn now, maybe you learn we don’t want you here!”

“Look at him, chicken!”

“Yah, chicken!”

Ginger forced the door open. The grinning boys jumped back, stared, waiting.

“Honey, don’t, please don’t!”