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down on the bed beside Biff。 'You know who it is that used to
write those bloody warnings in red chalk on the fences and
walls around the mills？'180
181
。No；' Biff said。 'What bloody warnings？'
'Mostly from the Old Testament I been wondering about that for
a long time。'
Each person addressed his words mainly to the mute。 Their
thoughts seemed to converge in him as the spokes of a wheel lead
to the center hub。
The cold has been very unusual；' BifE said finally。 The other day
I was looking through some old records and I found that in the
year 1919 the thermometer got down to ten degrees Fahrenheit。
It was only sixteen degrees this morning； and that's the coldest
since the big freeze that year。'
There were icicles hanging off the roof of the coal house this
morning；' Mick said。
cWe didn't take in enough money last week to meet the payroll；'
Jake said。
They discussed the weather some more。 Each one seemed to be
waiting for the others to go。 Then on an impulse they all rose to
leave at the same time。 Doctor Cope…land went first and the
others followed him immediately。 When they were gone Singer
stood alone in the room； and as he did not understand the
situation he wanted to forget it He decided to write to
Antonapoulos that night
The fact that Antonapoulos could not read did not prevent
Singer from writing to him。 He had always known that his friend
was unable to make out the meaning of words on paper； but as
the months went by he began to imagine that perhaps he had
been mistaken； that perhaps Antonapoulos only kept his
knowledge of letters a secret from everyone。 Also； it was possible
there might be a deaf…mute at the asylum who could read his
letters and then explain them to his friend。 He thought of several
justifications for his letters； for he always felt a great need to
write to his friend when he was bewildered or sad。 Once written；
however； these letters were never mailed。 He cut out the comic
strips from the morning and evening papers and sent them to his
friend each Sunday。 And every month he mailed a postal money
order。 But the long letters he wrote to Antonapoulos
accumulated in his pockets until he would destroy them。
When the four people had gone； Singer slipped on his
warm gray overcoat and his gray felt hat and left his room。 He always
wrote his letters at the store。 Also； he had promised to deliver a
certain piece of work the next morning； and he wanted to finish it
now so that there would be no question of delay。 The night was sharp
and frosty。 The moon was full and rimmed with a golden light。 The
rooftops were black against the starlit sky。 As he walked he thought
of ways to begin his letter； but he had already reached the store
before the first sentence was clear in his mind。 He let himself into the
dark store with his key and switched on the front lights。
He worked at the very end of the store。 A cloth curtain separated his
place from the rest of the shop so that it was like a small private
room。 Besides his workbench and chair there was a heavy safe in the
corner； a lavatory with a greenish mirror； and shelves full of boxes
and worn…out clocks。 Singer rolled up the top of his bench and
removed from its felt case the silver platter he had promised to have
ready。 Although the store was cold he took off his coat and turned up
the blue…striped cuffs of his shirt so that they would not get in his
way。
For a long time he worked at the monogram in the center of the
platter。 With delicate； concentrated strokes he guided the scriver on
the silver。 As he worked his eyes had a curiously penetrating look of
hunger。 He was thinking of his letter to his friend Antonapoulos。
Midnight had passed before the work was finished。 When he put the
platter away his forehead was damp with excitement。 He cleared his
bench and began to write。 He loved to shape words with a pen on
paper and he formed the letters with as much care as if the paper had
been a plate of silver。
My Only Friend：
I see from our magazine that the Society meets this year at a
convention in Macon。 They will have speakers and a four…course
banquet。 I imagine it。 Remember we always planned to attend one of
the conventions but we never did。 I wish now that we had。 I wish we
were going to this one and I have imagined how it would be。 But of
course I could never go without you。 They will come from many
states and they will all be full of words and long dreams from the182
heart。 There is also to be a special service at one of the
churches and some kind of a contest with a gold medal for the
prize。 I write that I imagine all this。 I both do and do not。 My
hands have been still so long that it is difficult to remember
how it is。 And when I imagine the convention I think of all the
guests being like you； my Friend。
I stood before our home the other day。 Other people live in it
now。 Do you remember the big oak tree in front？ The
branches were cut back so as not to interfere with the
telephone wires and the tree died。 The limbs are rotten and
there is a hollow place in the trunk。 Also； the cat here at the
store （the one you used to stroke and fondle） ate something
poisonous and died。 It was very sad。
Singer held the pen poised above the paper。 He sat for a long
while； erect and tense； without continuing the letter。 Then he
stood up and lighted himself a cigarette。 The room was cold
and the air had a sour stale odor—the mixed smells of
kerosene and silver polish and tobacco。 He put on his overcoat
and muffler and began writing again with slow determination。
You remember the four people I told you about when I was
there。 I drew their pictures for you； the black man； the young
girl； the one with the mustache； and the man who owns the
New York Cafe。 There are some things I should like to tell
you about them but how to put them in words I am not sure。
They are all very busy people。 In fact they are so busy that it
will be hard for you to picture them。 I do not mean that they
work at their jobs all day and night but that they have much
business in their minds always that does not let them rest。
They come up to my room and talk to me until I do not
understand how a person can open and shut his or her mouth
so much without being weary。 （However； the New York Cafe
owner is different—he is not just like the others。 He has a very
black beard so that he has to shave twice daily； and he owns
one of these electric razors。 He watches。 The others all have
something
183
they hate。 And they all have something they love more than
eating or sleeping or wine or friendly company。 That is why
they are always so busy。）
The one with the mustache I think is crazy。 Sometimes he
speaks his words very clear like my teacher long ago at the
school。 Other times he speaks such a language that I cannot
follow。 Sometimes he is dressed in a plain suit； and the next
time he will be black with dirt and smelling bad and in the
overalls he wears to work。 He will shake his fist and say ugly
drunken words that I would not wish you to know about。 He
thinks