“Got it all figured out, ain’t you, boy?”

“No, sir,” he said, shaking his head emphatically. “I’m telling the truth . . .”

A series of questions made him hopeful again.

“What’s your wife’s name?”

“Rachel, sir.”

“When is this baby going to be born?”

“Any minute now, sir.”

“Who’s with your wife?”

“My cousin, Ruby.”

“Uh hunh,” Lawson said, with slow thoughtfulness.

“I think he’ll do, Lawson,” said the tall, raw-boned policeman who had not spoken before.

Lawson laughed and started the motor.

“Well, boy, you’ll have to come along with us,” said Lawson, his manner a strange mixture of compassion and harsh judgment.

“Mister, call Reverend Davis . . . I teach Sunday School for ’im. I sing in the choir and I organized the Glee Club . . .”

“You’d better put the bracelets on ’im, Murphy,” Lawson said.

The tall, raw-boned man clicked handcuffs on his wrists.

“Scared, boy?” Murphy asked.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, though he had not really understood the question. He had answered because he wanted to please them. Then he corrected himself: “Oh, no, sir.”

“Where’s your mother and father, boy?” Lawson asked.

“Sir? Oh, yes, sir. They dead . . .”

“Any kin folks in the city?”

“No, sir. Just Cousin Ruby.”

“Come on. Let’s take ’im in,” Lawson said.

His eyes blurred with the first tears he had shed since childhood. The car rolled northward and he noticed that it had grown dark. Yeah, they taking me to the Hartsdale Station, he thought. He had no fear about all this; he looked unseeingly before him, confident that he would eventually give an explanation that would free him. This was a dream, but soon he would awaken and marvel at how real it had seemed. The car swung and turned onto Court Street and sped westward over steel trolley tracks. What would Rachel think when he did not come home on time? She would be worried to death. He was astonished to learn from a big clock in a store window that it was seven. His stomach contracted as he pictured his hot supper waiting for him on the kitchen table. Well, as soon as he identified himself sufficiently at the police station, they would let him go. And later tonight, at home with Rachel, sitting in the easy chair by the radio, he would laugh at this little incident; in telling the story he would hold back the most dramatic parts and make Rachel eager to ask many questions.

The car rumbled on and a ghost of a smile played across his lips. The car’s horn sounded and he remembered where he was. Yes, he had to tell these policemen that he was no thug and that Reverend Davis, his friend, was a public figure in the Negro community. He would make the policemen know that they were not dealing with a stray bum who knew nobody, who had no family, friends, or connections. . . .

“That’s right, boy. Think up a good alibi,” Lawson said.