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his head lowered。 A crazy sound came out of his throat。 He hit
with all his strength and charged with his head like a bull。
Senseless words were in his mind and he was laughing。 He did
not see who he hit and did not know who hit him。 But he knew
that the line…up of the fight had changed and now each man
was for himself。
Then suddenly it was finished。 He tripped and fell over
backward。 He was knocked out so that it may have been a
minute or it may have been much longer before he opened his
eyes。 A few drunks were still fighting but two dicks were
breaking it up fast。 He saw what he had tripped over。 He lay
half on and hah* beside the body of a young Negro boy。 With
only one look he knew that he was dead。 There was a cut on
the side of his neck but it was hard to see how he had died in
such a hurry。 He knew the face but could not place it。 The
boy's mouth was open and his eyes were open in surprise。 The
ground was littered with papers and broken bottles and
trampled hamburgers。 The head was290
broken off one of the jinny horses and a booth was destroyed。
He was sitting up。 He saw the dicks and in a panic he started
to run。 By now they must have lost his track。
There were only four more blocks ahead； and then he would
be safe for sure。 Fear had shortened his breath so that he was
winded。 He clenched bis fists and lowered his head。 Then
suddenly he slowed and halted。 He was alone in an alley near
the main street。 On one side was the wall of a building and he
slumped against it； panting； the corded vein in his forehead
inflamed。 In his confusion he had run all the way across the
town to reach the room of his friend。 And Singer was dead。 He
began to cry。 He sobbed aloud； and water dripped down from
his nose and wet his mustache。
A wall； a flight of stairs； a road ahead。 The burning sun was
like a heavy weight on him。 He started back the way he had
come。 This time he walked slowly； wiping his wet face with
the greasy sleeve of his shirt。 He could not stop the trembling
of his lips and he bit them until he tasted blood。
At the corner of the next block he ran into Simms。 The old
codger was sitting on a box with his Bible on his knees。 There
was a tall board fence behind him； and on it a message was
written with purple chalk。
He Died to Save You
Hear the Story of His Love and Grace
Every Nite 7。15 P。M。
The street was empty。 Jake tried to cross over to the other
sidewalk； but Simms caught him by the arm。
'Come； all ye disconsolate and sore of heart。 Lay down your
sins and troubles before the blessed feet of Him who died to
save you。 Wherefore goest thou； Brother Blount？
'
〃Home to hockey；' Jake said。 'I got to hockey。 Does the
Saviour have anything against that？
'
'Sinner！ The Lord remembers all your transgressions。 The
Lord has a message for you this very night。
'
'Does the Lord remember that dollar I gave you last week？
'
'Jesus has a message for you at seven…fifteen tonight。 You be
here on time to hear His Word。
'
291
Jake licked his mustache。 'You have such a crowd every night
I can't get up close enough to hear。
'
〃There is a place for scoffers。 Besides； I have had a sign that
soon the Saviour wants me to build a house for Him。 On that
lot at the corner of Eighteenth Avenue and Sixth Street。
A
tabernacle large enough to hold five hundred people。 Then
you scoffers will see。 The Lord prepareth a table before me in
the presence of mine enemies； he anoint…eth my head with oil。
My cup runneth
'
'I can round you up a crowd tonight；' Jake said。
'How？
'
'Give me your pretty colored chalk。 I promise a big crowd。
'
'I've seen your signs；' Simms said。 ' 〃Workers！ America Is the
Richest Country in the World Yet a Third of Us Are Starving。
When Will We Unite and Demand Our Share？〃—all that。
Your signs are radical。 I wouldn't let you use my chalk。
'
'But I don't plan to write signs。
'
Simms fingered the pages of his Bible and waited
suspiciously。
Til get you a fine crowd。 On the pavements at each end of the
block I'll draw you some good…looking naked floozies。 All in
color with arrows to point the way。 Sweet； plump； bare…
tailed'
'Babylonian！' the old man screamed。 'Child of Sodom！ God
will remember this。'
Jake crossed over to the other sidewalk and started toward the
house where he lived。 'So long； Brother。'
'Sinner；' the old man called。 'You come back here at seven…
fifteen sharp。 And hear the message from Jesus that will give
you faith。 Be saved。'
Singer was dead。 And the way he had felt when he first heard
that he had killed himself was not sad—it was angry。 He was
before a wall。 He remembered all the innermost thoughts that
he had told to Singer； and with his death it seemed to him that
they were lost。 And why had Singer wanted to end his life？
Maybe he had gone insane。 But anyway he was dead； dead；
dead。 He could not be seen or touched or spoken to； and the
room where they had spent so many hours had been rented to
a girl who292
worked as a typist。 He could go there no longer。 He was alone。
A wall； a flight of stairs； an open road。
Jake locked the door of his room behind him。 He was hungry
and there was nothing to eat。 He was thirsty and only a few
drops of warm water were left in the pitcher by the table。 The
bed was unmade and dusty fluff had accumulated on the floor。
Papers were scattered all about the room； because recently he
had written many short notices and distributed them through
the town。 Moodily he glanced at one of the papers labeled
'The T。W。O。C。 Is Your Best Friend。' Some of the notices
consisted of only one sentence； others were longer。 There was
one full…page manifesto entitled 〃The Affinity Between Our
Democracy and； Fascism。'
For a month he had worked on these papers； scribbling them
during working hours； typing and making carbons on the
typewriter at the New York Caf6； distributing them by hand。
He had worked day and night。 But who read them？ What good
had any of it done？ A town this size was too big for any one
man。 And now he was leaving。
But where would it be this time？ The names of cities called to
him—Memphis； Wilmington； Gastonia； New Orleans。 He
would go somewhere。 But not out of the South。 The old
restlessness and hunger were in him again。 It was different
this time。 He did not long for open space and freedom—just
the reverse。 He remembered what the Negro； Copeland； had
said to him； 'Do not attempt to stand alone。' There were times
when that was best。
Jake moved the bed across the room。 On the part of the floor
the bed had hidden there were a suitcase and a pile of books
and dirty clothes。 Impatiently he began to pack。 The old
Negro's face was in his mind and some of the words they had
said came back to him。 Copeland was crazy。 He was a fanatic；
so that it was maddening to try to reason with him。 Still the
terrible anger that they had felt that night had been hard to
understand。 Copeland knew。 And those who knew were like a
handful of naked soldiers before an armed battalion。 And what
had they done？ They had turned to quarrel with each other。
Cop