The roar, after the interminable silence, cut the cringing boy like a knife. He was sick now and helpless as he lay on the dirty floor. As the sound increased in tempo, his head began to swim and he seemed to pass out only to have some unexplainable urge revive him.
Then all was deathly still and the silence settled mistlike over the boy. Whatever it is in man that keeps him from falling over that final precipice of reason, surged forth now in the boy. Suddenly he was on his feet As he plunged through the doors he found his voice. He had difficulty projecting, but as he half-ran, half-stumbled toward the circle around the craggy old tree, it gained in volume. “Stop it,” he begged. “Stop. Stop it. I lied,” he cried. “I lied!”
Through the quietly triumphant mob he pushed until he stood alone within the circle. “I lied,” he screamed. His words grasped each man by the throat. “I lied,” he repeated as the dangling feet came menacingly close to his tear-filled face. “I didn’t see anything,” he muttered. His knees failed him, and he sank slowly into a heap within the swaying shadow of the dead man.
Some men bolted and others, not as lucky, fought a losing battle with their stomachs as their eyes followed, with uncontrolled fascination, their strangled victim. Their innocent victim.
The storekeeper returned to his calico and muslin and the blacksmith attempted to soothe his conscience before his anvil. Within seconds the street was clear. Clear, except for a simpering boy groveling under a shadow. Except for the trembling sheriff, who somehow had dragged himself to the side of his accomplice and stood glassy-eyed, staring through and beyond a man who would haunt him forever. And except for the priest. I hold a secret, he thought, a secret that could free a town of its bonds. I wonder, he mused more wisely than ever before in his short, sheltered life. I wonder? Would I free them even if I could?
The shadows dimmed that day on Dobart’s last lynching. Though the street in time resumed an air of life and custom, no man who stood among them ever forgot.
Incidents on B Street
by Paul W. Fairman
He turned into B Street around half-past three that afternoon. He came from no place in particular and he had no clear destination at the moment — this shuffling little nondescript who had caused some concern among the mothers of the Flat Point area; an entirely logical concern because his twisted body and ragged filth were translated easily into marks of latent viciousness.
So they were naturally worried when they saw him walking their streets and sitting empty-eyed in their parks. Some of them felt a complaint was in order, but none went quite that far because they were all honest taxpayers and neighborhood protection was up to the police. So the little man went his way, unaware of their low regard, the mute hostility simply not penetrating his consciousness.
He lived on Garth Place in a windowless little cubbyhole, existing by grace of a tiny pension of some sort — a pittance that gave him means of survival. He had no one and no one claimed him. Even his name was known only to the bank teller who cashed his monthly check and then forgot him until the next visit.
But it had not always been thus, even though the little man himself could not clearly remember when it had been different. There was a picture of better and more vital days somewhere back in his memory — bright days — but glimpses of them could be dredged up only by dint of great mental effort. And even then the memory-bridge never quite took him back to the times before chaos, always threw him squarely into the blur of that terrible brink-of-death business from which great surgical skill had salvaged his life, but little else.
So he’d stopped trying to remember; content now to live from moment to moment in the half-world of damaged mind and broken body. A not-unpleasant life, really, because the sun warmed him on good days and the Garth Place furnace was generous with its heat when the streets turned icy.
Content because he was incapable of discontent and that about summed him up.
But on this particular afternoon a probing recall nudged him sharply. This occurred when he moved up B Street and saw four boys playing in the open basement of a burnt-out warehouse — a dangerous ruin — a second menace that had brought worry to the mothers of Flat Point.
Fire had gutted the building some months earlier — so fiercely that nothing remained but the basement and a three-floor brick wall running thin and fragile along one side of the excavation. This wall should have been long-since demolished, but a jurisdictional argument between two city departments had delayed the work. And until the dispute could be settled, red DANGER — NO TRESPASSING! signs had been posted on the three open sides of the basement.
But the four boys had ignored the signs with careless courage and an urgent something stirred in the crippled man’s mind; something that told him he had once been a person of authority; that protection of the public had been a part of his work, warning the foolhardy still his duty.
So, acting on this cloudy instinct, he straightened his bent back, frowned down Into the pit, and called out, “Get out of that hole! What are you trying to do — get killed? Come on — get moving!”
The boys looked up in idle wonder. They’d seen the old bum before, roaming aimlessly through Flat Point, but they’d ignored him as being not even a worthy target for the hazing impulsive youth sometimes inflicts on the helpless.
But this was different. He’d made sounds like a human being — ridiculous sounds — and they commented.
“Dig the loud-mouth slob, you guys.”
“Beat it, ya crazy lush.”
“Is he for real, fellas?”
“Let’s find out.” And the fourth boy picked up a rock and threw it with enough accuracy to hit the man on the leg.
The sharp pain broke the spell, and he whimpered as he came back to reality because pain was an undefeated enemy he remembered well. And with pain came fear and he turned and ran off up the street although ran was hardly the word. He hopped along ridiculously on one stiff leg and one that gave limply under pressure; an amusing spectacle, and it was understandable that four boys, alert for chances of fun on this pleasant afternoon, should climb outof the pit and take off in hot pursuit.
They closed in on him at the edge of Flat Point Park and what happened was no doubt his own fault. He should not have shown such terror. He should not have clambered like a scared, crippled rabbit up a rocky embankment as though danger were at his heels. He shouldn’t have tempted the four boys in this manner with so many rocks handy. It was a stupid thing to do.
And certainly not the fault of the lads that they responded to a whim of the moment and threw a few of the rocks. They weren’t bad boys; not killers by any stretch of imagination.
This was amply proved when an accidently accurate pitch hit the old man squarely in the temple and he dropped as though pole-axed; proved by the fact that the boys stopped throwing instantly and registered fright. They hadn’t meant any harm. They’d only been having a little fun.
Immediately, the logical argument started as to which one had really thrown the lethal rock. They all denied it and accused each other. Then they debated as to whether any of the rocks had actually hit the old man. Probably not. He’d been drunk in the first place. Anybody could see that. And they hadn’t been chasing him, either. They had as much right in the park as he did, so how was it their fault if the drunk old coot fell down and hurt himself?
They arrived at these conclusions as they retreated slowly — slowly to make it obvious that they really weren’t retreating at all. And then they remembered they hadn’t been home from school yet and that their mothers would probably be worried. So they broke up as a group and each went quietly and obediently home.