At that moment the street lamps came on, throwing illumination into the store. He moved dreamily to a counter and lifted up a huge bunch of grapes and held them toward the woman.

“That’s fine,” the woman said. “But that’s more than a pound, isn’t it?”

He did not answer; he still held the grapes in the air before her eyes. He came to himself and saw that the man was staring at him intently.

“Put them in a bag for me,” the woman said, fumbling in her purse.

He looked about and saw a pile of paper bags under a narrow ledge; he opened one and put the grapes into it.

“Thanks,” said the woman, placing a dime in his hands.

The man came closer and stared at his face.

“Where’s Nick?” the man asked. “At supper?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

They left and he stood in the doorway like an image of stone. He burst out laughing and flung the dime to the floor. He stepped outside into the warm, sultry air and breathed it deeply into his lungs. He looked up and saw a few shy stars and he trembled with fear and gladness. The look of the world was beautiful, yet, under the surface of this beguiling drapery he felt the lurking threat. The kinder the aspect of things were, the more he recoiled. A white man passed and glanced at him and he grew afraid. After the man had vanished, he took a few steps along the pavement toward an unattended newsstand and looked at a stack of papers. He saw a headline:

HUNT BLACK WHO COMMITTED DOUBLE MURDER

He felt that someone was stripping off his clothing and his nakedness was being revealed. He looked about wildly and snatched a newspaper from the pile and tucked it under his arm and walked uneasily back to the door. He shuddered. Yes, the warm summer evening, though starry, clean, exciting, was thick with death. Wet with fear, he went quickly to the rear of the store and descended the steps and at once, as soon as the darkness and silence of the underground had cast its cloak about him, he felt at home. Lingering in his mind was the image of the street with its soft lights and he loathed it with every drop of his blood. They ain’t going to get me, he resolved bitterly. He sighed, feeling that a grave issue had been settled. He climbed into his hole and waded across the pool of sludge and slithered through the long tunnel of wet clay and stood again in the inky darkness of the sewer with the friendly, grey water churning at his feet. Yet, he knew deep down in him that the ultimate decision was still to come, for, though the underground claimed him, it rejected him. The conviction that he could not stay slept uneasily in his heart. . . .

IX

By the hazy light of a manhole cover, he unrolled the newspaper and read the news of his being wanted and chased; he had committed a double murder, they said, a horrible murder, and should die. In big, black type was the assertion that he had admitted his guilt. But I didn’t do it! he exclaimed with an inward groan. The match flame went to darkness and he balled the paper in violent anger and ripped it to shreds and cast the bits onto the surface of the grey water with a sweeping gesture of unappeasable protest.