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hastened onward。 Nausea rose in his belly so that there was
the taste of vomit in his throat。 A barking dog chased beside
him until he stopped long enough to threaten it with a rock。
His eyes were wide with horror and he held his hand clapped
to his open mouth。
Christ！ So this was the finish。 A brawl。 A riot。 A fight with
every man for himself。 Bloody heads and eyes cut with broken
bottles。 Christ！ And the wheezy music of the flying…28
jinny above the noise。 The dropped hamburgers and cotton
candy and the screaming younguns。 And him in it all。 Fighting
blind with the dust and sun。 The sharp cut of teeth against his
knuckles。 And laughing。 Christ！ And the feeling that he had
let loose a wild； hard rhythm in him that wouldn't stop。 And
then looking close into the dead black face and not knowing。
Not even knowing if he had killed or not。 But wait。 Christ！
Nobody could have stopped it。
Jake slowed and jerked his head nervously to look behind him。
The alley was empty。 He vomited and wiped his mouth and
forehead with the sleeve of his shirt。 Afterward he rested for a
minute and felt better。 He had run for about eight blocks and
with short cuts there was about half a mile to go。 The
dizziness cleared in his head so that from all the wild feelings
he could remember facts。 He started off again； this time at a
steady jog。
Nobody could have stopped it。 All through the summer he had
stamped them out like sudden fires。 All but this one。 And this
fight nobody could have stopped。 It seemed to blaze up out of
nothing。 He had been working on the machinery of the swings
and had stopped to get a glass of water。 As he passed across
the grounds he saw a white boy and a Negro walking around
each other。 They were both drunk。 Half the crowd was drunk
that afternoon； for it was Saturday and the mills had run full
time that week。 The heat and the sun were sickening and there
was a heavy stink in the air。
He saw the two fighters close in on each other。 But he knew
that this was not the beginning。 He had felt a big fight coming
for a long time。 And the funny thing was he found time to
think of all this。 He stood watching for about five seconds
before he pushed into the crowd。 In that short time he thought
of many things。 He thought of Singer。 He thought of the sullen
summer afternoons and the black； hot nights； of all the fights
he had broken up and the quarrels he had hushed。
Then he saw the flash of a pocketknife in the sun。 He
shouldered through a knot of people and jumped on the back
of the Negro who held the knife。 The man went down with
him and they were on the ground together。 The smell of sweat
on the Negro was mixed with the heavy dust in
289
his lungs。 Someone trampled on his legs and his head was
kicked。 By the time he got to his feet again the fight had
become general。 The Negroes were fighting the white men and
the white men were fighting the Negroes。 He saw clearly；
second by second。 The white boy who had picked the fight
seemed a kind of leader。 He was the leader of a gang that
came often to the show。 They were about sixteen years old
and they wore white duck trousers and fancy rayon polo shirts。
The Negroes fought back as best they could。 Some had razors。
He began to yell out words： Order！ Help！ Police！ But it was
like yelling at a breaking dam。 There was a terrible sound in
his ear—terrible because it was human and yet without words。
The sound rose to a roar that deafened him。 He was hit on the
head。 He could not see what went on around him。 He saw only
eyes and mouths and fists—wild eyes and half…closed eyes；
wet； loose mouths and clenched ones； black fists and white。
He grabbed a knife from a hand and caught an upraised fist。
Then the dust and the sun blinded him and the one thought in
his mind was to get out and find a telephone to call for help。
But he was caught。 And without knowing when it happened he
piled into the fight himself。 He hit out with his fists and felt
the soft sqush of wet mouths。 He fought with his eyes shut and
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。