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When he moved again his actions were informed with precision, his muscular system reinforced from a reservoir of energy. He crawled through the hole of earth, dropped into the gray sewer current, and sloshed ahead. When his right foot went forward at a street intersection, he fell backward and shot down into water. In a spasm of terror his right hand grabbed the concrete ledge of a down-curve and he felt the streaking water tugging violently at his body. The current reached his neck and for a moment he was still. He knew that if he moved clumsily he would be sucked under. He held onto the ledge with both hands and slowly pulled himself up. He sighed, standing once more in the sweeping water, thankful that he had missed death.

He waded on through sludge, moving with care, until he came to a web of light sifting down from a manhole cover. He saw steel hooks running up the side of the sewer wall; he caught hold and lifted himself and put his shoulder to the cover and moved it an inch. A crash of sound came to him as he looked into a hot glare of sunshine through which blurred shapes moved. Fear scalded him and he dropped back into the pallid current and stood paralyzed in the shadows. A heavy car rumbled past overhead, jarring the pavement, warning him to stay in his world of dark light, knocking the cover back into place with an imperious clang.

He did not know how much fear he felt, for fear claimed him completely; yet it was not a fear of the police or of people, but a cold dread at the thought of the actions he knew he would perform if he went out into that cruel sunshine. His mind said no; his body said yes; and his mind could not understand his feelings. A low whine broke from him and he was in the act of uncoiling. He climbed upward and heard the faint honking of auto horns. Like a frantic cat clutching a rag, he clung to the steel prongs and heaved his shoulder against the cover and pushed it off halfway. For a split second his eyes were drowned in the terror of yellow light and he was in a deeper darkness than he had ever known in the underground.

Partly out of the hole, he blinked, regaining enough sight to make out meaningful forms. An odd thing was happening: No one was rushing forward to challenge him. He had imagined the moment of his emergence as a desperate tussle with men who wanted to cart him off to be killed; instead, life froze about him as the traffic stopped. He pushed the cover aside, stood, swaying in a world so fragile that he expected it to collapse and drop him into some deep void. But nobody seemed to pay him heed. The cars were now swerving to shun him and the gaping hole.

“Why in hell don’t you put up a red light, dummy?” a raucous voice yelled.

He understood; they thought that he was a sewer workman. He walked toward the sidewalk, weaving unsteadily through the moving traffic.

“Look where you’re going, nigger!”

“That’s right! Stay there and get killed!”

“You blind, you bastard?”

“Go home and sleep your drunk off!”

A policeman stood at the curb, looking in the opposite direction. When he passed the policeman, he feared that he would be grabbed, but nothing happened. Where was he? Was this real? He wanted to look about to get his bearings, but felt that something awful would happen to him if he did. He wandered into a spacious doorway of a store that sold men’s clothing and saw his reflection in a long mirror: his cheekbones protruded from a hairy black face; his greasy cap was perched askew upon his head and his eyes were red and glassy. His shirt and trousers were caked with mud and hung loosely. His hands were gummed with a black stickiness. He threw back his head and laughed so loudly that passers-by stopped and stared.

He ambled on down the sidewalk, not having the merest notion of where he was going. Yet, sleeping within him, was the drive to go somewhere and say something to somebody. Half an hour later his ears caught the sound of spirited singing.

The Lamb, the Lamb, the Lamb
I hear thy voice a-calling
The Lamb, the Lamb, the Lamb
I feel thy grace a-falling

A church! He exclaimed. He broke into a run and came to brick steps leading downward to a subbasement. This is it! The church into which he had peered. Yes, he was going in and tell them. What? He did not know; but, once face to face with them, he would think of what to say. Must be Sunday, he mused. He ran down the steps and jerked the door open; the church was crowded and a deluge of song swept over him.

The Lamb, the Lamb, the Lamb
Tell me again your story
The Lamb, the Lamb, the Lamb
Flood my soul with your glory

He stared at the singing faces with a trembling smile.

“Say!” he shouted.

Many turned to look at him, but the song rolled on. His arm was jerked violently.

“I’m sorry, Brother, but you can’t do that in here,” a man said.

“But, mister!”

“You can’t act rowdy in God’s house,” the man said.

“He’s filthy,” another man said.

“But I want to tell ’em,” he said loudly.

“He stinks,” someone muttered.

The song had stopped, but at once another one began.

Oh, wondrous sight upon the cross
Vision sweet and divine
Oh, wondrous sight upon the cross
Full of such love sublime

He attempted to twist away, but other hands grabbed him and rushed him into the doorway.

“Let me alone!” he screamed, struggling.

“Get out!”

“He’s drunk,” somebody said. “He ought to be ashamed!”

“He acts crazy!”

He felt that he was failing and he grew frantic.

“But, mister, let me tell—”

“Get away from this door, or I’ll call the police!”

He stared, his trembling smile fading in a sense of wonderment.

“The police,” he repeated vacantly.

“Now, get!”

He was pushed toward the brick steps and the door banged shut. The waves of song came.

Oh, wondrous sight, wondrous sight
Lift my heavy heart above
Oh, wondrous sight, wondrous sight
Fill my weary soul with love

He was smiling again now. Yes, the police … That was it! Why had he not thought of it before? The idea had been deep down in him, and only now did it assume supreme importance. He looked up and saw a street sign: COURT STREET—HARTSDALE AVENUE. He turned and walked northward, his mind filled with the image of the police station. Yes, that was where they had beaten him, accused him, and had made him sign a confession of his guilt. He would go there and clear up everything, make a statement. What statement? He did not know. He was the statement, and since it was all so clear to him, surely he would be able to make it clear to others.

He came to the corner of Hartsdale Avenue and turned westward. Yeah, there’s the station … A policeman came down the steps and walked past him without a glance. He mounted the stone steps and went through the door, paused; he was in a hallway where several policemen were standing, talking, smoking. One turned to him.

“What do you want, boy?”

He looked at the policeman and laughed.

“What in hell are you laughing about?” the policeman asked.

He stopped laughing and stared. His whole being was full of what he wanted to say to them, but he could not say it.

“Are you looking for the Desk Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir,” he said quickly; then: “Oh, no, sir.”

“Well, make up your mind, now.”

Four policemen grouped themselves around him.

“I’m looking for the men,” he said.

“What men?”

Peculiarly, at that moment he could not remember the names of the policemen; he recalled their beating him, the confession he had signed, and how he had run away from them. He saw the cave next to the church, the money on the walls, the guns, the rings, the cleaver, the watches, and the diamonds on the floor.

“They brought me here,” he began.

“When?”

His mind flew back over the blur of the time lived in the underground blackness. He had no idea of how much time had elapsed, but the intensity of what had happened to him told him that it could not have transpired in a short space of time, yet his mind told him that time must have been brief.

“It was a long time ago.” He spoke like a child relating a dimly remembered dream. “It was a long time,” he repeated, following the promptings of his emotions. “They beat me … I was scared … I ran away.”

A policeman raised a finger to his temple and made a derisive circle.

“Nuts,” the policeman said.

“Do you know what place this is, boy?”

“Yes, sir. The police station,” he answered sturdily, almost proudly.

“Well, who do you want to see?”

“The men,” he said again, feeling that surely they knew the men. “You know the men,” he said in a hurt tone.

“What’s your name?”

He opened his lips to answer and no words came. He had forgotten. But what did it matter if he had? It was not important.

“Where do you live?”

Where did he live? It had been so long ago since he had lived up here in this strange world that he felt it was foolish even to try to remember. Then for a moment the old mood that had dominated him in the underground surged back. He leaned forward and spoke eagerly.

“They said I killed the woman.”

“What woman?” a policeman asked.

“And I signed a paper that said I was guilty,” he went on, ignoring their questions. “Then I ran off …”

“Did you run off from an institution?”

“No, sir,” he said, blinking and shaking his head. “I came from under the ground. I pushed off the manhole cover and climbed out …”

“All right, now,” a policeman said, placing an arm about his shoulder. “We’ll send you to the psycho and you’ll be taken care of.”

“Maybe he’s a Fifth Columnist!” a policeman shouted.

There was laughter and, despite his anxiety, he joined in. But the laughter lasted so long that it irked him.

“I got to find those men,” he protested mildly.

“Say, boy, what have you been drinking?”

“Water,” he said. “I got some water in a basement.”

“Were the men you ran away from dressed in white, boy?”

“No, sir,” he said brightly. “They were men like you.”

An elderly policeman caught hold of his arm.

“Try and think hard. Where did they pick you up?”

He knitted his brows in an effort to remember, but he was blank inside. The policeman stood before him demanding logical answers and he could no longer think with his mind; he thought with his feelings and no words came.

“I was guilty,” he said. “Oh, no, sir. I wasn’t then, I mean, mister!”

“Aw, talk sense. Now, where did they pick you up?”

He felt challenged and his mind began reconstructing events in reverse; his feelings ranged back over the long hours and he saw the cave, the sewer, the bloody room where it was said that a woman had been killed.

“Oh, yes, sir,” he said, smiling. “I was coming from Mrs Wooten’s.”

“Who is she?”

“I work for her.”

“Where does she live?”

“Next door to Mrs Peabody, the woman who was killed.”

The policemen were very quiet now, looking at him intently.

“What do you know about Mrs Peabody’s death, boy?”

“Nothing, sir. But they said I killed her. But it doesn’t make any difference. I’m guilty!”

“What are you talking about, boy?”

His smile faded and he was possessed with memories of the underground; he saw the cave next to the church and his lips moved to speak. But how could he say it? The distance between what he felt and what these men meant was vast. Something told him, as he stood there looking into their faces, that he would never be able to tell them, that they would never believe him even if he told them.

“All the people I saw was guilty,” he began slowly.

“Aw, nuts,” a policeman muttered.

“Say,” another policeman said, “that Peabody woman was killed over on Winewood. That’s Number Ten’s beat.”

“Where’s Number Ten?” a policeman asked.

“Upstairs in the swing room,” someone answered.

“Take this boy up, Sam,” a policeman ordered.

“O.K. Come along, boy.”

An elderly policeman caught hold of his arm and led him up a flight of wooden stairs, down a long hall, and to a door.

“Squad Ten!” the policeman called through the door.

“What?” a gruff voice answered.

“Someone to see you!”

“About what?”

The old policeman pushed the door in and then shoved him into the room.

He stared, his lips open, his heart barely beating. Before him were the three policemen who had picked him up and had beaten him to extract the confession. They were seated about a small table, playing cards. The air was blue with smoke and sunshine poured through a high window, lighting up fantastic smoke shapes. He saw one of the policemen look up; the policeman’s face was tired and a cigarette dropped limply from one corner of his mouth and both of his fat, puffy eyes were squinting and his hands gripped his cards.

“Lawson!” the man exclaimed.

The moment the man’s name sounded he remembered the names of all of them: Lawson, Murphy, and Johnson. How simple it was. He waited, smiling, wondering how they would react when they knew that he had come back.

“Looking for me?” the man who had been called Lawson mumbled, sorting his cards. “For what?”

So far only Murphy, the red-headed one, had recognized him.

“Don’t you-all remember me?” he blurted, running to the table.

All three of the policemen were looking at him now. Law-son, who seemed the leader, jumped to his feet.

“Where in hell have you been?”

“Do you know ’im, Lawson?” the old policeman asked.

“Huh?” Lawson frowned. “Oh, yes. I’ll handle ’im.” The old policeman left the room and Lawson crossed to the door and turned the key in the lock. “Come here, boy,” he ordered in a cold tone.

He did not move; he looked from face to face. Yes, he would tell them about his cave.

“He looks batty to me,” Johnson said, the one who had not spoken before.

“Why in hell did you come back here?” Lawson said.

“I—I just didn’t want to run away no more,” he said. “I’m all right, now.” He paused; the men’s attitude puzzled him.

“You’ve been hiding, huh?” Lawson asked in a tone that denoted that he had not heard his previous words. “You told us you were sick, and when we left you in the room, you jumped out of the window and ran away.”

Panic filled him. Yes, they were indifferent to what he would say! They were waiting for him to speak and they would laugh at him. He had to rescue himself from this bog; he had to force the reality of himself upon them.

“Mister, I took a sackful of money and pasted it on the walls …” he began.

‘I’ll be damned,” Lawson said.

“Listen,” said Murphy, “let me tell you something for your own good. We don’t want you, see? You’re free, free as air. Now go home and forget it. It was all a mistake. We caught the guy who did the Peabody job. He wasn’t colored at all. He was an Eyetalian.”

“Shut up!” Lawson yelled. “Have you no sense!”

“But I want to tell ’im,” Murphy said.

“We can’t let this crazy fool go,” Lawson exploded. “He acts nuts, but this may be a stunt …”

“I was down in the basement,” he began in a childlike tone, as though repeating a lesson learned by heart; “and I went into a movie …” His voice failed. He was getting ahead of his story. First, he ought to tell them about the singing in the church, but what words could he use? He looked at them appealingly. “I went into a shop and took a sackful of money and diamonds and watches and rings … I didn’t steal ’em; I’ll give ’em all back. I just took ’em to play with …” He paused, stunned by their disbelieving eyes.

Lawson lit a cigarette and looked at him coldly.

“What did you do with the money?” he asked in a quiet, waiting voice.

“I pasted the hundred-dollar bills on the walls.”

“What walls?” Lawson asked.

“The walls of the dirt room,” he said, smiling, “the room next to the church. I hung up the rings and the watches and I stamped the diamonds into the dirt …” He saw that they were not understanding what he was saying. He grew frantic to make them believe, his voice tumbled on eagerly. “I saw a dead baby and a dead man …”

“Aw, you’re nuts,” Lawson snarled, shoving him into a chair.

“But, mister …”

“Johnson, where’s the paper he signed?” Lawson asked.

“What paper?”

“The confession, fool!”

Johnson pulled out his billfold and extracted a crumpled piece of paper.

“Yes, sir, mister,” he said, stretching forth his hand. “That’s the paper I signed …”

Lawson slapped him and he would have toppled had his chair not struck a wall behind him. Lawson scratched a match and held the paper over the flame; the confession burned down to Lawson’s finger tips.

He stared, thunderstruck; the sun of the underground was fleeing and the terrible darkness of the day stood before him. They did not believe him, but he had to make them believe him!

“But, mister …”

“It’s going to be all right, boy,” Lawson said with a quiet, soothing laugh. “I’ve burned your confession, see? You didn’t sign anything.” Lawson came close to him with the black ashes cupped in his palm. “You don’t remember a thing about this, do you?”

“Don’t you-all be scared of me,” he pleaded, sensing their uneasiness. “I’ll sign another paper, if you want me to. I’ll show you the cave.”

“What’s your game, boy?” Lawson asked suddenly.

“What are you trying to find out?” Johnson asked.

“Who sent you here?” Murphy demanded.

“Nobody sent me, mister,” he said. “I just want to show you the room …”

“Aw, he’s plumb bats,” Murphy said. “Let’s ship ’im to the psycho.”

“No,” Lawson said. “He’s playing a game and I wish to God I knew what it was.”

There flashed through his mind a definite way to make them believe him; he rose from the chair with nervous excitement.

“Mister, I saw the night watchman blow his brains out because you accused him of stealing,” he told them. “But he didn’t steal the money and diamonds. I took ’em.”

Tigerishly Lawson grabbed his collar and lifted him bodily.

“Who told you about that?”

“Don’t get excited, Lawson,” Johnson said. “He read about it in the papers.”

Lawson flung him away.

“He couldn’t have,” Lawson said, pulling papers from his pocket. “I haven’t turned in the reports yet.”

“Then how did he find out?” Murphy asked.

“Let’s get out of here,” Lawson said with quick resolution. “Listen, boy, we’re going to take you to a nice, quiet place, see?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “And I’ll show you the underground.”

“Goddamn,” Lawson muttered, fastening the gun at his hip. He narrowed his eyes at Johnson and Murphy. “Listen,” he spoke just above a whisper, “say nothing about this, you hear?”

“O.K.,” Johnson said.

“Sure,” Murphy said.

Lawson unlocked the door and Johnson and Murphy led him down the stairs. The hallway was crowded with policemen.

“What have you got there, Lawson?”

‘‘What did he do, Lawson?”

“He’s psycho, ain’t he, Lawson?”

Lawson did not answer; Johnson and Murphy led him to the car parked at the curb, pushed him into the back seat. Lawson got behind the steering wheel and the car rolled forward.

“What’s up, Lawson?” Murphy asked.

“Listen,” Lawson began slowly, “we tell the papers that he spilled about the Peabody job, then he escapes. The Wop is caught and we tell the papers that we steered them wrong to trap the real guy, see? Now this dope shows up and acts nuts. If we let him go, he’ll squeal that we framed him, see?”

“I’m all right, mister,” he said, feeling Murphy’s and Johnson’s arm locked rigidly into his. “I’m guilty … I’ll show you everything in the underground. I laughed and laughed …”

“Shut that fool up!” Lawson ordered.

Johnson tapped him across the head with a blackjack and he fell back against the seat cushion, dazed.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled. “I’m all right.”

The car sped along Hartsdale Avenue, then swung onto Pine Street and rolled to State Street, then turned south. It slowed to a stop, turned in the middle of a block, and headed north again.

“You’re going around in circles, Lawson,” Murphy said.

Lawson did not answer; he was hunched over the steering wheel. Finally he pulled the car to a stop at a curb.

“Say, boy, tell us the truth,” Lawson asked quietly. “Where did you hide?”

“I didn’t hide, mister.”

The three policemen were staring at him now; he felt that for the first time they were willing to understand him.

“Then what happened?”

“Mister, when I looked through all of those holes and saw how people were living, I loved ’em …”

“Cut out that crazy talk!” Lawson snapped. “Who sent you back here?”

“Nobody, mister.”

“Maybe he’s talking straight,” Johnson ventured.

“All right,” Lawson said. “Nobody hid you. Now, tell us where you hid.”

“I went underground …”

“What goddamn underground do you keep talking about?”

“I just went …” He paused and looked into the street, then pointed to a manhole cover. “I went down in there and stayed.”

“In the sewer?”

“Yes, sir.”

The policemen burst into a sudden laugh and ended quickly. Lawson swung the car around and drove to Woodside Avenue; he brought the car to a stop in front of a tall apartment building.

“What’re we going to do, Lawson?” Murphy asked.

“I’m taking him up to my place,” Lawson said. “We’ve got to wait until night. There’s nothing we can do now.”

They took him out of the car and led him into a vestibule.

“Take the steps,” Lawson muttered.

They led him up four flights of stairs and into the living room of a small apartment. Johnson and Murphy let go of his arms and he stood uncertainly in the middle of the room.

“Now, listen, boy,” Lawson began, “forget those wild lies you’ve been telling us. Where did you hide?”

“I just went underground, like I told you.”

The room rocked with laughter. Lawson went to a cabinet and got a bottle of whisky; he placed glasses for Johnson and Murphy. The three of them drank.

He felt that he could not explain himself to them. He tried to muster all the sprawling images that floated in him; the images stood out sharply in his mind, but he could not make them have the meaning for others that they had for him. He felt so helpless that he began to cry.

“He’s nuts, all right,” Johnson said. “All nuts cry like that.”

Murphy crossed the room and slapped him.

“Stop that raving!”

A sense of excitement flooded him; he ran to Murphy and grabbed his arm.

“Let me show you the cave,” he said. “Come on, and you’ll see!”

Before he knew it a sharp blow had clipped him on the chin; darkness covered his eyes. He dimly felt himself being lifted and laid out on the sofa. He heard low voices and struggled to rise, but hard hands held him down. His brain was clearing now. He pulled to a sitting posture and stared with glazed eyes. It had grown dark. How long had he been out?

“Say, boy,” Lawson said soothingly, “will you show us the underground?”

His eyes shone and his heart swelled with gratitude. Lawson believed him! He rose, glad; he grabbed Lawson’s arm, making the policeman spill whisky from the glass to his shirt.

“Take it easy, goddammit,” Lawson said.

“Yes, sir.”

“O.K. We’ll take you down. But you’d better be telling us the truth, you hear?”

He clapped his hands in wild joy.

“I’ll show you everything!”

He had triumphed at last! He would now do what he had felt was compelling him all along. At last he would be free of his burden.

“Take ’im down,” Lawson ordered.

They led him down to the vestibule; when he reached the sidewalk he saw that it was night and a fine rain was falling.

“It’s just like when I went down,” he told them.

“What?” Lawson asked.

“The rain,” he said, sweeping his arm in a wide arc. “It was raining when I went down. The rain made the water rise and lift the cover off.”

“Cut it out,” Lawson snapped.

They did not believe him now, but they would. A mood of high selflessness throbbed in him. He could barely contain his rising spirits. They would see what he had seen; they would feel what he had felt. He would lead them through all the holes he had dug and … He wanted to make a hymn, prance about in physical ecstasy, throw his arm about the policemen in fellowship.

“Get into the car,” Lawson ordered.

He climbed in and Johnson and Murphy sat at either side of him; Lawson slid behind the steering wheel and started the motor.

“Now, tell us where to go,” Lawson said.

“It’s right around the corner from where the lady was killed,” he said.

The car rolled slowly and he closed his eyes, remembering the song he had heard in the church, the song that had wrought him to such a high pitch of terror and pity. He sang softly, lolling his head:

Glad, glad, glad, oh, so glad
I got Jesus in my soul…

“Mister,” he said, stopping his song, “you ought to see how funny the rings look on the wall.” He giggled. “I fired a pistol, too. Just once, to see how it felt.”

“What do you suppose he’s suffering from?” Johnson asked.

“Delusions of grandeur, maybe,” Murphy said.

“Maybe it’s because he lives in a white man’s world,” Lawson said.

“Say, boy, what did you eat down there?” Murphy asked, prodding Johnson anticipatorily with his elbow.

“Pears, oranges, bananas, and pork chops,” he said.

The car filled with laughter.

“You didn’t eat any watermelon?” Lawson asked, smiling.

“No, sir,” he answered calmly. “I didn’t see any.”

The three policemen roared harder and louder.

“Boy, you’re sure some case,” Murphy said, shaking his head in wonder.

The car pulled to a curb.

“All right, boy,” Lawson said. “Tell us where to go.”

He peered through the rain and saw where he had gone down. The streets, save for a few dim lamps glowing softly through the rain, were dark and empty.

“Right there, mister,” he said, pointing.

“Come on; let’s take a look,” Lawson said.

“Well, suppose he did hide down there,” Johnson said, “what is that supposed to prove?”

“I don’t believe he hid down there,” Murphy said.

“It won’t hurt to look,” Lawson said. “Leave things to me.”

Lawson got out of the car and looked up and down the street.

He was eager to show them the cave now. If he could show them what he had seen, then they would feel what he had felt and they in turn would show it to others and those others would feel as they had felt, and soon everybody would be governed by the same impulse of pity.

“Take ’im out,” Lawson ordered.

Johnson and Murphy opened the door and pushed him out; he stood trembling in the rain, smiling. Again Lawson looked up and down the street; no one was in sight. The rain came down hard, slanting like black wires across the wind-swept air.

“All right,” Lawson said. “Show us.”

He walked to the center of the street, stopped and inserted a finger in one of the tiny holes of the cover and tugged, but he was too weak to budge it.

“Did you really go down in there, boy?” Lawson asked; there was a doubt in his voice.

“Yes, sir. Just a minute. I’ll show you.”

“Help ’im get that damn thing off,” Lawson said.

Johnson stepped forward and lifted the cover; it clanged against the wet pavement. The hole gaped round and black.

“I went down in there,” he announced with pride.

Lawson gazed at him for a long time without speaking, then he reached his right hand to his holster and drew his gun.

“Mister, I got a gun just like that down there,” he said, laughing and looking into Lawson’s face. “I fired it once then hung it on the wall. I’ll show you.”

“Show us how you went down,” Lawson said quietly.

“I’ll go down first, mister, and then you-all can come after me, hear?” he spoke like a little boy playing a game.

“Sure, sure,” Lawson said soothingly. “Go ahead. We’ll come.”

He looked brightly at the policemen; he was bursting with happiness. He bent down and placed his hands on the rim of the hole and sat on the edge, his feet dangling into watery darkness. He heard the familiar drone of the gray current. He lowered his body and hung for a moment by his fingers, then he went downward on the steel prongs, hand over hand, until he reached the last rung. He dropped and his feet hit the water and he felt the stiff current trying to suck him away. He balanced himself quickly and looked back upward at the policemen.

“Come on, you-all!” he yelled, casting his voice above the rustling at his feet.

The vague forms that towered above him in the rain did not move. He laughed, feeling that they doubted him. But, once they saw the things he had done, they would never doubt again.

“Come on! The cave isn’t far!” he yelled. “But be careful when your feet hit the water, because the current’s pretty rough down here!”

Lawson still held the gun. Murphy and Johnson looked at Lawson quizzically.

“What are we going to do, Lawson?” Murphy asked.

“We are not going to follow that crazy nigger down into that sewer, are we?” Johnson asked.

“Come on, you-all!” he begged in a shout.

He saw Lawson raise the gun and point it directly at him. Lawson’s face twitched, as though he were hesitating.

Then there was a thunderous report and a streak of fire ripped through his chest. He was hurled into the water, flat on his back. He looked in amazement at the blurred white faces looming above him. They shot me, he said to himself. The water flowed past him, blossoming in foam about his arms, his legs, and his head. His jaw sagged and his mouth gaped soundless. A vast pain gripped his head and gradually squeezed out consciousness. As from a great distance he heard hollow voices.

“What did you shoot him for, Lawson?”

“I had to.”

“Why?”

“You’ve got to shoot his kind. They’d wreck things.”

As though in a deep dream, he heard a metallic clank; they had replaced the manhole cover, shutting out forever the sound of wind and rain. From overhead came the muffled roar of a powerful motor and the swish of a speeding car. He felt the strong tide pushing him slowly into the middle of the sewer, turning him about. For a split second there hovered before his eyes the glittering cave, the shouting walls, and the laughing floor … Then his mouth was full of thick, bitter water. The current spun him around. He sighed and closed his eyes, a whirling object rushing alone in the darkness, veering, tossing, lost in the heart of the earth.