“Did he tell them to do anything except maybe join this organization of his?”

“I—no. No, that’s all he told them.”

“Well, see, that ain’t hardly grounds for arrest. Just good old Freedom of Speech in action, Tom!”

“Yes,” Tom said.

“That’s Democracy.”

“Yes.”

The sheriff slapped Tom’s shoulder affably. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I hate to see anybody get hurt in my town, I don’t care whether he’s white or black. But I personally think this particular nigra must of been one of those wise ones that are moving into the county from the North; I think he must of started shooting off his mouth: otherwise nothing like this would of happened, and you know it. They’re good people here, but they won’t put up with a smart-ass nigra. I can’t blame them for that. Can you, Tom?”

“No, I can’t blame them for that,” Tom said and started out the door.

“Get some sleep,” the sheriff called. “And don’t worry. They got it all out of their system tonight!”

Got what out of their system? Tom thought.

The night air was moist and hot and windless, and the dark streets were empty now. Tom McDaniel walked to his car, got in and lit a cigarette.

The people I’ve lived with most of my life would have murdered that Negro, he thought, if I hadn’t called Parkhouse. That’s certain.

What is it that the people have to get out of their system? What is it that stays so close to the surface that a few words from a Yankee stranger can send it flooding out?

Tonight, he thought, was the beginning.

A war is coming to my town; and I don’t even know whose side I’m on.

11

11

He had been staring at the blank sheet of paper for over an hour. His mouth was full of the taste of coffee and cigarettes, his eyelids were heavy, and he could no longer focus his mind. It kept blurring. Little wild thoughts kept running through it.

The telephone rang and he answered it and took down the copy for the McMahan ad, impaling it on the ad spindle, but he could not control the thoughts.

He pushed his chair back and listened for a while to the rhythmic sound of the presses. Then he got up from the chair and walked into the back room, where the heavy black presses were. They were working now; working hard.

Jack Allardyce ambled over slowly. “You want me?” he said.

“No.” Tom watched Lulu. The thrust of her gleaming rollers hypnotized him momentarily, and he was forced to look away. “No, just stretching my legs.”

“You got the copy?”

“Not yet.”

“We ought to have it pretty soon,” the old man said.