There was a loud murmur of agreement, with people nodding and nudging each other. Sam cleared his throat to speak, and there was another interruption. A catcall from the outskirts of the crowd.
"How about that nigger baby, Sam?"
The crowd looked at each other, embarrassed, snickering, or outright guffawing. All at once there were catcalls from half a dozen different directions.
"Where's them gold teeth, Sam?" and "Did you just screw that widder for her money, Sam?" and "What'd you do with them hawgs you fed your wife to?" and so on. Until everything was in an uproar of shouts and laughter and bootstampings.
I let it go on for two, three minutes, letting these here good Christians work themselves up to the proper pitch. Then I held up my arms and called for quiet, and finally I got it. But it was restless, you know. The kind of quiet you get just before a storm.
"Now, Sam," I said, facing around to him again. "You reckon you fully understand the question, or do you want me to repeat it?"
"Uh, well-"
"I'll repeat it," I said, "an' you listen closely, now, Sam. If you didn't rape any little defenseless colored babies or beat your poor ol' pappy to death or feed your sweet, trusting wife that you'd sworn to protect and cherish to the hawgs or-if you didn't do none of them dirty low-down things that make me sick to my stomach to think about, how come so many folks say you did? Or puttin' it briefly, Sam, how come folks say that you done things that would out-stink a skunk and that you're lower down than a puke-eating dawg, if it ain't true? Or puttin' it still another way, are you sayin' that you're telling the truth an' that everyone else is a dirty no-good liar?"
Zeke Canton hollered, "Now, wait a minute! That's not-" But he was hollered down before he could say anything more. Everyone was yelling for Sam to answer, to let him do his own talking. I held up my hands again.
"Well, Sam, what's the answer?" I said. "We're all waitin' to hear it."
"Well-" Sam wet his lips. "Well, uh-"
"Yeah?" I said. "Just speak right up, Sam. Why are people sayin' those stories are true, if they ain't?"
"Well…"
Sam didn't have an answer. You could almost smell him sweatin' blood to think of one, but he just couldn't. Which wasn't no surprise to me, of course, because how could anyone answer a question like that?
Sam kept trying, though. He was on maybe about his sixteenth try when someone flung a prayer book, hitting him spang in the mouth. And that was kind of like a signal, like the first crack of lightning in a storm. Because the air was suddenly full of prayer books and hymnals, and everyone was shouting and cussing and trying to get their hands on Sam. And all at once he disappeared like he'd been dropped through a trap door…
I sauntered on home.
I thought, well, it was just as well that I wouldn't be on the speaker's platform tonight at Sam's meeting because Sam wouldn't be there neither because there wouldn't be no meeting because Sam wouldn't be a candidate no more.
I thought, well, that was at least one nail out of my cross, and maybe, if I kept on being upright and God-fearin' and never hurting no one unless it was for their good or mine, which was pretty much the same thing, why then maybe all my other problems would get straightened out as easy as this one had.
We ate Sunday dinner, Rose and Myra and Lennie and me. Rose was supposed to go home that afternoon, and I said I'd sure be proud to take her as soon as I'd rested myself a little. But naturally I didn't take her.
I couldn't, you know, since I could only see her one more time. Just once to do something about her. And that plan had come back to me again-the plan for doing something about her and Lennie and Myra at the same time. But it wasn't something that I could pull off on Sunday afternoon, or any afternoon; it had to be at night. And, anyways, I had to study some more about it.
Myra called to me after about an hour. Then she came into my bedroom and called some more, shaking me until the whole bed almost fell apart. And, of course, it didn't do no good at all.
Finally, she gave up, and went back out into the other room, and I heard her apologizing to Rose.
"I simply can't wake him up, dear. He's just dead to the world. Not that it's any wonder, I suppose, considering how much sleep he's lost."
Rose said, yes, it wasn't any wonder, was it?, her voice kind of flat. "Well, I really hadn't planned on staying over tonight, but-"
"And you don't have to," Myra declared. "I'll just take Lennie and drive you home myself."
"Now, that's not necessary," Rose said quickly. "I don't mind-"
"And I don't mind taking you. I really don't, darling. So you just get yourself ready-Lennie, go wash your face-and we'll be on our way."
"Well," said Rose. "Well, all right, Myra, dear."
They left a few minutes later.
I yawned and stretched and turned over on my side, all set to go to sleep for real. I started to doze, just started to, and I heard someone coming up the stairs.
It was a man, judging by the footsteps. I started to turn back on my side again, thinking, well, t'heck with him, it's Sunday afternoon an' I'm entitled to a little rest. But you just can't ignore no one when you're sheriff, Sunday or whatever day it is. So! flung my feet over the side of the bed, and got up.
I went out into the living room and flung open the hall door, just as he was about to knock on it.
He was a city-dressed fella, tall and thin with a nose like a fishhook and a mouth about as big as a bee's-ass.
"Sheriff Corey?" He flashed an identification card at me. "I'm Barnes, the Talkington Detective Agency."
He smiled, his bee's-ass mouth stretching enough to show one tooth, and it was like getting a glimpse of an egg coming out of a pullet pigeon. I said I was plumb proud to meet him.
"So you're with the Talkington Agency," I said. "Why, god-dang if I ain't heard a lot about you people! Let's see now, you broke up that big railroad strike, didn't you?"
"That's right." He showed me the tooth again. "The railroad strike was one of our jobs."
"Now, by golly, that really took nerve," I said. "Them railroad workers throwin' chunks of coal at you an' splashin' you with water, and you fellas without nothin' to defend yourself with except shotguns an' automatic rifles! Yes, sir, god-dang it, I really got to hand it to you!"
"Now, just a moment, Sheriff!" His mouth came together like a buttonhole. "We have never-"
"And them low-down garment workers," I said. "God-dang, you really took care of them, didn't you? People that threw away them big three-dollar-a-week wages on wild livin' and then fussed because they had to eat garbage to stay alive! I mean, what the heck, they was all foreigners, wasn't they, and if they didn't like the good ol' American garbage, why didn't they go back where they came from?"
"Sheriff! Sheriff Corey!"
"Yeah?" I said. "You got something on your mind, Mr. Barnes?"
"Certainly I have something on my mind! Why else would I have come here? Now-"
"You mean you just didn't drop in for a little chat?" I said. "Just to maybe show me your medals for shootin' people in the back an'-"