“Well, I called Talbot Tucker in Cudbury last night — he owns the tanning factory. Talbot said to send Kowalczyk to him, and that’s where Kowalczyk’s headed tomorrow morning. With a visit first to Father Girard of the Catholic church. I talked to Father about Kowalczyk, and he’s finding him a place to live, get him settled, and so on.”
“I didn’t mean that. He still has a theft rap hanging over his head.”
“Oh, that.” Judge Shinn dropped his cigar neatly over the porch railing, and rose. “Who’s going to press the charge — Ferriss Adams?”
Samuel Sheare held open the door of the parsonage. Josef Kowalczyk stepped into the early sunlight, blinking.
Most of Shinn Corners was gathered on the parsonage lawn, the men in their sweaty work clothes, the women in their house dresses, the children in dusty jeans and shorts.
They faced him silently.
Kowalczyk’s eyes rolled toward the minister. He took a jerky backward step, his gray skin darkening.
His trousers and tweed jacket looked almost spruce this morning. He wore a tie and shirt of Mr. Sheare’s, and he carried an old black felt hat from the same source. A tin lunch box was clutched to his ribs.
He had not shaved, and his hair was still long. “He was anxious,” Mr. Sheare explained later, “to get away.” His beard was very thick now, its ends beginning to curl. A blond beard with gray in it. It gave him a curiously dignified appearance.
Mr. Sheare put a hand on his arm and murmured.
Josef Kowalczyk let his breath go; he even smiled. But the smile was nervous and perfunctory, a polite flickering of the muscles about his mouth.
His eyes remained wary.
Now Hubert Hemus stepped out of the crowd, one hand out of sight behind his back. He was almost as gray-skinned this morning as Kowalczyk; his eyes were inflamed, as if he had not slept.
He wet his lips several times.
“Mr. Kowalczyk,” he began.
Kowalczyk’s eyes widened.
“Mr. Kowalczyk,” Hube Hemus began a second time. “As First Selectman of Shinn Corners, I’m speakin’ for the whole community.” He swallowed. Then he went on in a rush. “I expect, Mr. Kowalczyk, we used you hard. Made a mistake.” Hemus’s jaws ground futilely. “Bad mistake,” he acknowledged.
And he stopped again.
Kowalczyk said nothing.
Hemus cried suddenly, “We’re a law-abidin’ community! Don’t ever think we ain’t! Town’s got a right to protect itself. That’s how we figgered.” Then his narrow shoulders slumped. “But I guess we went off half-cocked... went about it the wrong way. Seemed so open and shut...”
Hube Hemus stopped once more, bitterly.
Kowalczyk’s lips tightened.
“I go Cudb’ry,” he said.
“Wait!” Hemus sounded panicky. He brought his concealed hand around and thrust it at Kowalczyk. It held a purple-stained pint berry basket. ‘We’re askin’ you to accept this, Mr. Kowalczyk,” he said rapidly. “Here.”
Josef Kowalczyk stared into the basket. It was full of bills and coins.
“Here,” Hube Hemus said again, urgently.
Kowalczyk took it.
And Hemus turned away at once, and as he turned away the people of the town turned away, too. Men, women, and children went quickly back into the road, and some climbed into cars, and the Isbels climbed into the wagon behind the horses tethered at the trough, and some walked across the intersection, and soon they were all gone.
“I’ll give you your text for your sermon Sunday, Mr. Sheare,” said Judge Shinn dryly. “‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth.’”
Samuel Sheare shook his head, smiling. “Josef, don’t stand here gawpin’ at it. It’s their way of makin’ amends. A conscience offerin’.”
But Kowalczyk eyed the money sullenly.
“It’s all right, Joe,” said Johnny. “It’s an old American custom. Kick a man between the legs and then get up a collection to buy him a truss.”
A grin spread over the bearded face. Kowalczyk pressed the basket into Mr. Sheare’s astonished hand.
“You take,” he said.
And he turned and shuffled rapidly down the parsonage walk as if he were afraid the minister might come running after. He hurried up Four Corners Road and around the horse trough into Shinn Road, putting on Mr. Sheare’s hat with a sort of fussy enjoyment as he went.
“Now that’s nice,” said the minister slowly, looking down at the basket. “That’s real nice.”
They went to the intersection. Kowalczyk was already passing Fanny Adams’s house. He did not glance at it, but they noticed his steps quicken.
He began the long climb up the sun-drenched hill.
“What am I thinking of? Kowalczyk, wait!” shouted Judge Shinn. “Don’t you want me to get somebody to drive you to Cudbury?”
But Josef Kowalczyk only walked the faster. They watched him until he was a speck against the blazing eastern sky.
As he topped the rise and disappeared over Holy Hill, two cars came rushing past him and bore down the hill toward the village. They were taxicabs from Cudbury.
“What did I tell you?” chuckled the Judge. “Out-of-town reporters, and they never even looked his way.”
“What’s a tramp?” said Johnny.
“Indeed, indeed,” said the Judge absently. “Well, Mr. Sheare. Who was it remarked that only the poor know the luxury of giving?”
“A wise man,” Mr. Sheare murmured, “I’m sure. I think — yes! — I’ll use this money to keep fresh flowers on Fanny Adams’s grave. She was real fond of flowers.”
And the minister hurried smiling back across the parsonage lawn to tell his wife.
The Judge and Johnny sauntered over to the Shinn lawn and up the porch steps. They sat down in the rockers to wait for the newsmen.
“Ah, me,” said the Judge. “Fine, fine day in the making, Johnny.”
Johnny looked at the houses and the roads and the fields and the blue blue sky, and he breathed in with real pleasure.
“I’ve seen worse,” conceded Johnny Shinn.