16 WINESBURG, 01110

Again and again the fathers of the boys had
talked of the hands. “Keep your hands to your-
self,” the saloon keeper had roared, dancing with
fury in the schoolhouse yard.

Upon the veranda of his house by the ravine, i

Wing Biddlebaum continued to ivalk‘up"a'nd"d‘6tirn

until the sun had disappeared and the road Abe» ‘A

yond the field was lost in the grey shadows. Go-
ing into his house he cut slices of bread and spread
honey upon them. ‘When the rumble of the
evening train that took away the express cars
loaded with the day’s harvest of berries had
passed and restored the silence of the summer
night, he went again to walk upon the veranda.
ln the darkness he could not see the hands and

they became quiet. Although he still hungerecli

for the presence of the boy, who was the medium
through which he expressed his love of man, the
hunger became again a part of hisgloneliness and
his waiting. Lighting a lamp, Wing Biddlebaurn
washed the few dishes soiled by his simple meal
and, setting up a folding cot by the screen door
that led to the porch, prepared to undress for the
night. A few stray white bread crumbs lay on
the cleanly "washed floor by the table; putting the
lamp upon a low stool he began to pick up the
crumbs, carrying them to his mouth one by one
‘with unbelievable rapidity. In the dense blotch

of light beneath the table, the kneeling figure