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words； and then when he read them clearly they made no
reason。 At the finish there were three words： 'Prognosis： Don't
know。'
The old black； violent feeling came in him again。 He leaned
down and wrenched open a drawer at the bottom of the case。
A jumbled pile of letters。 Notes from the Association for the
Advancement of Colored People。 A yellowed letter from
Daisy。 A note from Hamilton asking for a dollar and a half。
What was he looking for？ His hands rummaged in the drawer
and then at last he arose stiffly。
Time wasted。 The past hour gone。
Portia peeled potatoes at the kitchen table。 She was slumped
over and her face was dolorous。
'Hold up your shoulders；' he said angrily。 'And cease moping。
You mope and drool around until I cannot bear to look on
you。'
'I were just thinking about Willie；' she said。 'Course the letter
is only three days due。 But he got no business to worry me like
this。 He not that kind of a boy。 And I got this queer feeling。
'
'Have patience； Daughter。
'
'I reckon I have to。
'
'There are a few calls I must make； but I will be back shortly。
'
'O。K。
'
'All will be well；' he said。
Most of his joy was gone in the bright； cool noonday sun。 The
diseases of his patients lay scattered in his mind。 An abscessed
kidney。 Spinal meningitis。 Pott's disease。 He lifted the crank of
the automobile from the back seat168
Usually he hailed some passing Negro from the street to crank
the car for him。 His people were always glad to help and
serve。 But today he fitted the crank and turned it vigorously
himself。 He wiped the perspiration from his face with the
sleeve of his overcoat and hurried to get beneath the wheel
and on his way。
How much that he had said today was understood？ How much
would be of any value？ He recalled the words he had used；
and they seemed to fade and lose their strength。 The words left
unsaid were heavier on his heart。 They rolled up to his lips
and fretted them。 The faces of his suffering people moved in
a
swelling mass before his eyes。 And as he steered the
automobile slowly down the street his heart turned with this
angry； restless love。
J。 HE town had not known a winter as cold as this one for
years。 Frost formed on the windowpanes and whitened the
roofs of houses。 The winter afternoons glowed with a hazy
lemon light and shadows were a delicate blue。 A thin coat of
ice crusted the puddles in the streets； and it was said on the
day after Christmas that only ten miles to the north there was a
light fall of snow。
A change came over Singer。 Often he went out for the long
walks that had occupied him during the months when
Antonapoulos was first gone。 These walks extended for miles
in every direction and covered the whole of the town。 He
rambled through the dense neighborhoods along the river that
were more squalid than ever since the mills had been slack
this winter。 In many eyes there was a look of somber
loneliness。 Now that people were forced to be idle； a certain
restlessness could be felt。 There was a fervid outbreak of new
beliefs。 A young man who had worked at the dye vats in a mill
claimed suddenly that a great holy power had come in him。 He
said it was his duty to deliver a new set of commandments
from the Lord； The young man set up a tabernacle and
hundreds of people came each night to roll on the ground and
shake each other； for they believed that they were in the
presence of something more than human。 There was murder；
too。 A woman who could
169
not make enough to eat believed that a foreman had cheated
on her work tokens and she stabbed him in the throat。 A
family of Negroes moved into the end house on one of the
most dismal streets； and this caused so much indignation that
the house was burned and the black man beaten by his
neighbors。 But these were incidents。 Nothing had really
changed。 The strike that was talked about never came off
because they could not get together。 All was the same as
before。 Even on the coldest nights the Sunny Dixie Show was
open。 The people dreamed and fought and slept as much as
ever。 And by habit they shortened their thoughts so that they
would not wander out into the darkness beyond tomorrow。
Singer walked through the scattered odorous parts of town
where the Negroes crowded together。 There was more gaiety
and violence here。 Often the fine； sharp smell of gin lingered
in the alleys。 Warm； sleepy firelight colored the windows。
Meetings were held in the churches almost every night。
Comfortable little houses set off in plots of brown grass—
Singer walked in these parts also。 Here the children were
huskier and more friendly to strangers。 He roamed through the
neighborhoods of the rich。 There were houses； very grand and
old； with white columns and intricate fences of wrought iron。
He walked past the big brick houses where automobiles
honked in the driveways and where the plumes of smoke
rolled lavishly from chimneys。 And out to the very edges of
the roads that led from the town to general stores where
fanners came on Saturday nights and sat around the stove。 He
wandered often about the four main business blocks that were
brightly lighted and then through the black； deserted alleys
behind。 There was no part of the town that Singer did not
know。 He watched the yellow squares of light reflect from a
thousand windows。 The winter nights were beautiful。 The sky
was a cold azure and the stars were very bright
Often it happened now that he would be spoken to and
stopped during these walks。 All kinds of people became
acquainted with him。 If the person who spoke to him was a
stranger； Singer presented his card so that his silence would be
understood。 He came to be known through all the town。 He
walked with his shoulders very straight and kept his hands
always stuffed down into his pockets。 His170
gray eyes seemed to take in everything around him； and in his
face there was still the look of peace that is seen most often in
those who are very wise or very sorrowful。 He was always
glad to stop with anyone wishing his company。 For after all he
was only walking and going nowhere。
Now it came about that various rumors started in the town
concerning the mute。 In the years before with An…tonapoulos
they had walked back and forth to work； but except for this
they were always alone together in their rooms。 No one had
bothered about them then—and if they were observed it was
the big Greek on whom attention was focused。 The Singer of
those years was forgotten。
So the rumors about the mute were rich and varied。 The Jews
said that he was a Jew。 The merchants along the main street
claimed he received a large legacy and was a very rich man。 It
was whispered in one browbeaten textile union that the mute
was an organizer for the C。I。O。 A lone Turk who had roamed
into the town years ago and who languished with his family
behind the little store where they sold linens claimed
passionately to his wife that the mute was Turkish。 He said
that when he spoke his language the mute understood。 And as
he claimed this his voice grew warm and he for