The dark lay over the valley like a velvet mantel black and soft with

white wreaths of mist like a lady's veil flung aside and blown to the

breeze, but Billy saw naught but red winking lights and a jail, grim

and red in the midnight, and his friend's white face passing in beneath

the arched door. The bang of that door as it shut was echoing in his

soul.

He passed the Fenner cottage. There were lights and moving about, but

he paid no heed. He passed the Blue Duck Tavern, and saw the light in

the kitchen where the cook was beginning the day's work just as the

rest of the house had been given over to sleep. There was the smell of

bacon on the air. Some one was going away on the milk train likely. He

thought it out dully as he passed with the sick reeling motion of a

rider whose life has suddenly grown worthless to him. Over bottles and

nails, and bumping over humps old trusty carried him, down the hill to

Sabbath Valley, past the grave yard where the old stones peered eerily

up from the dark mounds like wakened curious sleepers, past the church

in the gray of the morning with a pinkness in the sky behind. Lynn

lying in a sleepless bed listening to every sound for Mark's car to

return, and recognizing Billy's back wheel squeak. On down the familiar

street, glad of the thick maples to hide him, hunching up the pajama

leg that would wave below in the rapidly increasing light, not looking

toward the Carters', plodding on, old trusty on the back porch;

shinning up the water spout, tiptoeing over the shed roof, a quick

spring in his own window and he was safe on his bed again staring at

the red morning light shining weirdly, cheerily on his wall and the

rooster crowing lustily below his window. Drat that rooster! What did

it want to make that noise for? Wasn't there a rooster in that Bible

story? Oh, no, that was Peter perhaps. He turned hastily from the

subject and gave his attention to his toilet. Aunt Saxon was squeaking

past his door, stopping to listen: "Willie?"

"Well." In a low growl, not encouragingly.

"Oh, Willie, you up? You better?"

"Nothin' the matter with me."

"Oh--"

"Breakfast ready?"

"Oh, yes, Willie! I'm so glad you're feeling better." She squeaked on

down the stairs sniffing as if from recent tears! Doggone those tears!

Those everlasting tears! Why didn't a woman know--! Now, what did he

have to do next? Do! Yes, he must do something. He couldn't just sit

here, could he? What about Stark's mountain and the winking light? What

about that sissy-guy making up to Miss Lynn? If only Mark were here now

he would tell him everything. Yes, he would. Mark would understand. But

Mark was in that unspeakable place! Would Mark find a way to get out?

He felt convinced he could, but would he? From the set of his shoulders

Billy had a strong conviction that Mark would not. Mark seemed to be

going there for a purpose. Would the purpose be complete during the day

sometime and would Mark return? Billy must do something before night.

He wished it might be to smash the face of that guy Shafton. Assuredly

he must do something. But first he must eat his breakfast. He didn't

want to, but he had to. Aunt Saxon would raise a riot if he didn't.

Well, there was ham. He could smell it. Ham for breakfast. Aw gee! Saxy

was getting extravagant. Somehow pretty soon if he didn't hang himself

he must find a way to brighten up Saxy and pay her back for all those

pink tears.




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