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flailed his hands and even stamped once with his long；
narrow； elegantly shoed foot on the plush carpet。 Nor was he
satisfied when his coin was refunded； but insisted on checking
out immediately。 He packed his bag and was obliged to work
energetically to make it close again。 For in addition to the
articles he had brought with him he carried away three towels；
two cakes of soap； a pen and a bottle of ink； a roll of toilet
paper； and a Holy Bible。 He paid his bill and walked to the
railway station to put his belongings in custody。 The train did
not leave until nine in the evening and he had the empty
afternoon before him。
This town was smaller than the one in which he lived。 The
business streets intersected to form the shape of a cross。 The
stores had a countrified look； there were harnesses and sacks
of feed in half of the display windows。 Singer walked
listlessly along the sidewalks。 His throat felt swollen and he
wanted to swallow but was unable to do so。 To relieve this
strangled feeling he bought a drink in one of the drugstores。
He idled in the barber shop and purchased a few trifles at the
ten…cent store。 He looked no one full in the face and his head
drooped down to one side like a sick animal's。
The afternoon was almost ended when a strange thing
happened to Singer。 He had been walking slowly and
irregularly along the curb of the street。 The sky was overcast
and the air humid。 Singer did not raise his head； but as he
passed the town pool room he caught a sidewise glance of
something that disturbed him。 He passed the pool room and
then stopped in the middle of the street。 Listlessly he retraced
his steps and stood before the open
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door of the place。 There were three mutes inside and they
were talking with their hands together。 All three of them were
coatless。 They wore bowler hats and bright ties。 Each of them
held a glass of beer in his left hand。 There was a certain
brotherly resemblance between them。
Singer went inside。 For a moment he had trouble taking his
hand from his pocket。 Then clumsily he formed a word of
greeting。 He was clapped on the shoulder。 A cold drink was
ordered。 They surrounded him and the fingers of their hands
shot out like pistons as they questioned him。
He told his own name and the name of the town where he
lived。 After that he could think of nothing else to tell about
himself。 He asked if they knew Spiros Antonapoulos。 They
did not know him。 Singer stood with his hands dangling loose。
His head was still inclined to one side and his glance was
oblique。 He was so listless and cold that the three mutes in the
bowler hats looked at him queerly。 After a while they left him
out of their conversation。 And when they had paid for the
rounds of beers and were ready to depart they did not suggest
that he join them。
Although Singer had been adrift on the streets for half a day
he almost missed his train。 It was not clear to him how this
happened or how he had spent the hours before。 He reached
the station two minutes before the train pulled out； and barely
had time to drag his luggage aboard and find a seat。 The car he
chose was almost empty。 When he was settled he opened the
crate of strawberries and picked them over with finicky care。
The berries were of a giant size； large as walnuts and in full…
blown ripeness。 The green leaves at the top of the rich…colored
fruit were like tiny bouquets。 Singer put a berry in his mouth
and though the juice had a lush； wild sweetness there was
already a subtle flavor of decay。 He ate until his palate was
dulled by the taste and then rewrapped the crate and placed it
on the rack above him。 At midnight he drew the window…
shade and lay down on the seat。 He was curled in a ball； his
coat pulled over his face and head。 In this position he lay in a
stupor of half…sleep for about twelve hours。 The conductor had
to shake him when they arrived。
Singer left his luggage in the middle of the station floor。 Then
he walked to the shop。 He greeted the jeweler for whom he
worked with a listless turn of his head。 When280
he went out again there was something heavy in his pocket For a
while he rambled with bent head along the streets。 But the
unrefracted brilliance of the sun； the humid heat； oppressed him。 He
returned to his room with swollen eyes and an aching head。 After
resting he drank a glass of iced coffee and smoked a cigarette。 Then
when he had washed the ash tray and the glass he brought out a pistol
from his pocket and put a bullet in his chest。
Part Three
August 21；1939
Morning
J。 WILL not be hurried；' Doctor Copeland said。 'Just let me be。 Kindly
allow me to sit here in peace a moment。'
'Father； us not trying to rush you。 But it time now to get gone from
here。'
Doctor Copeland rocked stubbornly； his gray shawl drawn close
around his shoulders。 Although the morning was warm and fresh； a
small wood fire burned in the stove。 The kitchen was bare of all
furniture except the chair in which he sat。 The other rooms were
empty； too。 Most of the furniture had been moved to Portia's house；
and the rest was tied to the automobile outside。 All was in readiness
except his own mind。 But how could he leave when there was neither
beginning nor end； neither truth nor purpose in his thoughts？ He put
up his hand to steady his trembling head and continued to rock
himself slowly in the creaking
chair。
Behind the closed door he heard their voices： 'I done all I can。 He
determined to sit there till he good and ready to leave。'
'Buddy and me done wrapped the china plates and'
'Us should have left before the dew dried；' said the old man。 'As is；
night liable to catch us on the road。'
Their voices quieted。 Footsteps echoed in the empty hallway and he
could hear them no more。 On the floor beside him was a cup and
saucer。 He filled it with coffee from the pot on the top of the stove。
As he rocked he drank
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the coffee and warmed his fingers in the steam。 This could not
truly be the end。 Other voices called wordless in his heart。 The
voice of Jesus and of John Brown。 The voice of the great
Spinoza and of Karl Marx。 The calling voices of all those who
had fought and to whom it had been vouchsafed to complete
their missions。 The grief…bound voices of his people。 And also
the voice of the dead。 Of the mute Singer； who was a
righteous white man of understanding。 The voices of the weak
and of the mighty。 The ； rolling voice of his people growing
always in strength and in power。 The voice of the strong； true
purpose。 And in answer the words trembled on his lips—the
words which ' are surely the root of all human grief—so that
he almost said aloud： 'Almighty Host！ Utmost power of the
universe！ I have done those things which I ought not to have
done and left undone those things which I ought to have done。
So this cannot truly be the end。'
He had first come into the house with her whom he loved。
And Daisy was dressed in her bridal gown and wore a white
lace veil。 Her skin was the beautiful color of dark honey and
her laughter was sweet。 At night he had shut himself in the
bright room to study alone。 He had tried to cogitate and to
discipline himself to study。 But with Daisy near him there was
a strong desire in him that would not go away with study。 So
sometimes he surrendered to these feelings； and again he bit
his lips and meditated with the books throughout the night。
And then there were Hamilton and Karl Marx and William
and Portia。 All lost。 No one remained。
And Madyben and Benny Mae。 And Benedine Madine and
Mady Copeland。 Those who carried his name。 And those
whom he had exhorted。 But out of the thousands of them
where was there one to whom he could entrust the mission and
then take ease？ ；
All of his life he had known it strongly。 He had known the
reason for his working and was sure in his heart because he
knew each day what lay ahead of him。 He would go with his
bag from house to house； and on all things he would talk to
them and patiently explain。 And then in the night he would be
happy in the knowledge that the day had been a day of
purpose。 And even without Daisy and Hamilton and Karl
Marx and William and Portia he
could sit by the stove alone and take joy from this knowledge。
He would drink a pot of turnip…green liquor and eat a pone of
cornbread。 A deep feeling of satisfaction would be in him
because the day was good。
There were thousands of such times of satisfaction。 But what
had been their meaning？ Out of all the years he could think of
no work of lasting value。
After a while the door to the hall was opened and Portia came
in。 'I reckon I going to have to dress you like a baby；' she said。
'Here your shoes and socks。 Let me take off your bedroom
shoes and put them on。 We got to get gone from here pretty
soon。'
'Why have you done this to me？' he asked bitterly。
'What I done to you now？'
'You know full well that I do not want to leave。 You pressed
me into saying yes when I was in no fit condition to make a
decision。 I wish to remain where I have alwa