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crimson。 The owner of the show stood smoking a cigarette by
himself。 His red hair sprang up like a sponge on the top of his
head and he stared at Jake with gray； flabby eyes。
〃You the manager？
'
*Uh…huh。 Patterson's my name。
'
'I come about the job in this morning's paper。
'
*Yeah。 I don't want no greenhorn。 I need a experienced
mechanic。
'
'I got plenty of experience；' Jake said。
'What you ever done？
'
Tve worked as a weaver and loom…fixer。 I've worked in
garages and an automobile assembly shop。 All sorts of
different things。
'
Patterson guided him toward the partly covered flying…jinny。
The motionless wooden horses were fantastic in the late
afternoon sun。 They pranced up statically； pierced by their
dull gilt bars。 The horse nearest Jake had a splintery wooden
crack in its dingy rump and the eyes walled blind and frantic；
shreds of paint peeled from the sockets。 The motionless
merry…go…round seemed to Jake like something in a liquor
dream。
'I want a experienced mechanic to run this and keep the works
in good shape；' Patterson said。
。I can do that all right。'
'If s a two…handed job；' Patterson explained。 'You're in charge
of the whole attraction。 Besides looking after the machinery
you got to keep the crowd in order。 You got to be sure that
everybody gets on has a ticket。 You got to be sure that the
tickets are O。K。 and not some old dance…hall ticket。 Everybody
wants to ride them horses； and you'd be surprised what niggers
will try to put over on you when54
they don't have no money。 You got to keep three eyes open all
the time。'
Patterson led him to the machinery inside the circle of horses
and pointed out the various parts。 He adjusted a lever and the
thin jangle of mechanical music began。 The wooden cavalcade
around them seemed to cut them off from the rest of the
world。 When the horses stopped； Jake asked a few questions
and operated the mechanism himself。
'The fellow I had quit on me；' Patterson said when they had
come out again into the lot。 'I always hate to break in a new
man。' 'When do I start？'
Tomorrow afternoon。 We run six days and nights a week—
beginning at four and shutting up at twelve。 You're to come
about three and help get things going。 And it takes about a
hour after the show to fold up for the night。' 'What about pay？'
'Twelve dollars。'
Jake nodded； and Patterson held out a dead…white； boneless
hand with dirty fingernails。
It was late when he left the vacant lot。 The hard； blue sky had
blanched and in the east there was a white moon。 Dusk
softened the outline of the houses along the street。 Jake did
not return immediately through Weavers Lane； but wandered
in the neighborhoods near…by。 Certain smells； certain voices
heard from a distance； made him stop short now and then by
the side of the dusty street。 He walked erratically； jerking from
one direction to another for no purpose。 His head felt very
light； as though it were made of thin glass。 A chemical change
was taking place in him。 The beers and whiskey he had stored
so continuously in his system set in a reaction。 He was
sideswiped by drunkenness。 The streets which had seemed so
dead before were quick with life。 There was a ragged strip of
grass bordering the street； and as Jake walked along the
ground seemed to rise nearer to his face。 He sat down on the
border of grass and leaned against a telephone pole。 He settled
himself comfortably； crossing his legs Turkish fashion and
smoothing down the ends of his mustache。 Words came to him
and dreamily he spoke them aloud to himself。
55
。Resentment is the most precious flower of poverty。 Yeah。'
It was good to talk。 The sound of his voice gave him pleasure。
The tones seemed to echo and hang on the air so that each
word sounded twice。 He swallowed and moistened his mouth
to speak again。 He wanted suddenly to return to the mute's
quiet room and tell him of the thoughts that were in his mind。
It was a queer thing to want to talk with a deaf…mute。 But he
was lonesome。
The street before him dimmed with the coming evening。
Occasionally men passed along the narrow street very close to
him； talking in monotones to each other； a cloud of dust rising
around their feet with each step。 Or girls passed by together；
or a mother with a child across her shoulder。 Jake sat numbly
for some time； and at last he got to his feet and walked on。
Weavers Lane was dark。 Oil lamps made yellow； trembling
patches of light in the doorways and windows。 Some of the
houses were entirely dark and the families sat on their front
steps with only the reflections from a neighboring house to see
by。 A woman leaned out of a window and splashed a pail of
dirty water into the street。 A few drops of it splashed on Jake's
face。 High； angry voices could be heard from the backs of
some of the houses。 From others there was the peaceful sound
of a chair slowly rocking。
Jake stopped before a house where three men sat together on
the front steps。 A pale yellow light from inside the house
shone on them。 Two of the men wore overalls but no shirts
and were barefooted。 One of these was tall and loose…jointed。
The other was small and he had a running sore on the corner
of his mouth。 The third man was dressed in shirt and trousers。
He held a straw hat on his knee。
'Hey；' Jake said。
The three men stared at him with mill…sallow； dead…pan faces。
They murmured but did not change their positions。 Jake pulled
the package of Target from his pocket and passed it around。
He sat down on the bottom step and took off his shoes。 The
cool； damp ground felt good to his feet。
'Working now？'56
。Yeah；' said the man with the straw hat。 'Most of the time。'
Jake picked between his toes。 'I got the Gospel in me；* he
said。 'I want to tell it to somebody。'
The men smiled。 From across the narrow street there was the
sound of a woman singing。 The smoke from their cigarettes
hung close around them in the still air。 A little youngun
passing along the street stopped and opened bis fly to make
water。
'There's a tent around the corner and it's Sunday；' the small
man said finally。 'You can go there and tell all the Gospel you
want。'
'It's not that kind。 It's better。 It's the truth。'
'What kind？'
Jake sucked his mustache and did not answer。 After a while he
said； 'You ever have any strikes here？'
'Once；' said the tall man。 They had one of these here strikes
around six years ago。'
'What happened？'
The man with the sore on his mouth shuffled his feet and
dropped the stub of his cigarette to the ground。 'Well —they
just quit work because they wanted twenty cents a hour。 There
was about three hundred did it。 They just hung around the
streets all day。 So the mill sent out trucks； and in a week the
whole town was swarming with folks come here to get a job。'
Jake turned so that he was facing them。 The men sat two steps
above him so that he had to raise his head to look into their
eyes。 'Don't it make you mad？' he asked。
'How do you mean—mad？'
The vein in Jake's forehead was swollen and scarlet。
'Christamighty； man！ I mean mad—m…a…d—ma