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not enjoyed music。 Yet when he was young he used to play
the mandolin； and he knew the words and the melody of every
current song。
He laid his finger on the side of his nose and cocked his head
to one side。 Mick had grown so much in the past year that
soon she would be taller than he was。 She was dressed in the
red sweater and blue pleated skirt she had worn every day
since school started。 Now the pleats had come out and the hem
dragged loose around her sharp； jutting knees。 She was at the
age when she looked as much like an overgrown boy as a girl。
And on that subject why was it that the smartest people mostly
missed that point？ By nature all people are of both sexes。 So
that marriage and the bed is not all by any means。 The proof？
Real youth and old age。 Because often old men's voices grow
high and reedy and they take on a mincing walk。 And old
women sometimes grow fat and their voices get rough and
deep and they grow dark little mustaches。 And he even proved
113 it himself—the part of him that sometimes almost wished
he was a mother and that Mick and Baby were his kids。
Abruptly Biff turned from the cash register。
The newspapers were in a mess。 For two weeks he hadn't filed
a single one。 He lifted a stack of them from under the counter。
With a practiced eye he glanced from the masthead to the
bottom of the sheet。 Tomorrow he would look over the stacks
of them in the back room and see about changing the system
of files。 Build shelves and use those solid boxes canned goods
were shipped in for drawers。 Chronologically from October
27；1918； on up to the present date。 With folders and top
markings outlining historical events。 Three sets of outlines—
one international beginning with the Armistice and leading
through the Munich aftermath； the second national； the third
all the local dope from the time Mayor Lester shot his wife at
the country club up to the Hudson Mill fire。 Everything for the
past twenty years docketed and outlined and complete。 Biff
beamed quietly behind his hand as he rubbed his jaw。 And yet
Alice had wanted him to haul out the papers so she could turn
the room into a ladies' toilet。 That was just what she had
nagged him to do； but for once he had battered her down。 For
that one time。
With peaceful absorption Biff settled down to the details of
the newspaper before him。 He read steadily and with
concentration； but from habit some secondary part of him was
alert to everything around him。 Jake Blount was still talking；
and often he would hit his fist on the table。 The mute sipped
beer。 Mick walked restlessly around the radio and stared at the
customers。 Biff read every word in the first paper and made a
few notes on the
margins。
Then suddenly he looked up with a surprised expression。 His
mouth had been open for a yawn and he snapped it shut。 The
radio swung into an old song that dated back to the time when
he and Alice were engaged。 'Just a Baby's Prayer at Twilight。'
They had taken the streetcar one Sunday to Old Sardis Lake
and had rented a rowboat。 At sunset he played on the
mandolin while she sang。 She had on a sailor hat； and when he
put his arm around her waist
she—Alice
A dragnet for lost feelings。 Biff folded the newspapers114
and put them back under the counter。 He stood on one foot
and then the other。 Finally he called across the room to Mick。
'You're not listening； are you？'
Mick turned off the radio。 'No。 Nothing on tonight。' All of that
he would keep out of his mind； and concentrate on something
else。 He leaned over the counter and watched one customer
after another。 Then at last his attention rested on the mute at
the middle table。 He saw Mick edge gradually up to him and
at his invitation sit down。 Singer pointed to something on the
menu and the waitress brought a Coca…Cola for her。 Nobody
but a freak like a deaf…mute； cut off from other people； would
ask a right young girl to sit down to the table where he was
drinking with another man。 Blount and Mick both kept their
eyes on Singer。 They talked； and the mute's expression
changed as he watched them。 It was a funny thing。 The reason
—was it in them or in him？ He sat very still with his hands in
his pockets； and because he did not speak it made him seem
superior。 What did that fellow think and realize？ What did he
know？
Twice during the evening Biff started to go over to the middle
table； but each time he checked himself。 After they were gone
he still wondered what it was about this mute —and in the
early dawn when he lay in bed he turned over questions and
solutions in his mind without satisfaction。 The puzzle had
taken root in him。 It worried him in the back of his mind and
left him uneasy。 There was something wrong。
＇。ANY times Doctor Copeland talked to Mr。 Singer。 Truly he
was not like other white men。 He was a wise man； and he
understood the strong； true purpose in a way that other white
men could not。 He listened； and in his face there was
something gentle and Jewish； the knowledge of one who
belongs to a race that is oppressed。 On one occasion he took
Mr。 Singer with him on his rounds。 He led him through cold
and narrow passages smelling of dirt and sickness and fried
fatback。 He showed him a successful skin graft made on the
face of a woman patient who had been severely burned。 He
treated a syphilitic child and pointed
115
out to Mr。 Singer the scaling eruption on the palms of the
hand； the dull； opaque surface of the eye； the sloping upper
front incisors。 They visited two…room shacks that housed as
many as twelve or fourteen persons。 In a room where the fire
burned low and orange on the hearth they were helpless while
an old man strangled with pneumonia。 Mr。 Singer walked
behind him and watched and understood。 He gave nickels to
the children； and because of his quietness and decorum he did
not disturb the patients as would have another visitor。
The days were chilly and treacherous。 In the town there was
an outbreak of influenza so that Dr。 Copeland was busy most
of the hours of the day and night。 He drove through the Negro
sections of the town in the high Dodge automobile he had
used for the past nine years。 He kept the isinglass curtains
snapped to the windows to cut off the draughts； and tight
around his neck he wore his gray wool shawl。 During this time
he did not see Portia or William or Highboy； but often he
thought of them。 Once when he was away Portia came to see
him and left a note and borrowed half a sack of meal。
There came a night when he was so exhausted that； although
there were other calls to make； he drank hot milk and went to
bed。 He was cold and feverish so that at first he could not rest。
Then it seemed that he had only begun to sleep when a voice
called him。 He got up wearily and； still in his long flannel
nightshirt； he opened the front door。 It was Portia。
〃The Lord Jesus help us； Father；' she said。 Doctor Copeland
stood shivering with his nightshirt drawn close around his
waist。 He held his hand to his throat and looked at her and
waited。
'It about our Willie。 He been a bad