It was as though the man was pinning a bright ribbon on him, and he glowed with the feeling. He sensed that he was standing straighter, that his chest was somewhat expanded and his shoulders were erect. It was on the order of the moments in the long ago when he had stood beside the big four-engined plane, having flown it across an ocean, flown it surely and safely, and landed it perfectly, to stand there and watch his passengers getting off. The good solid feeling of having accomplished a piece of work and done it well.

  He stepped back into the doorway of the Easton terminal and looked at his bus. The wonderful bus that he controlled, the compact assemblage of gears and bushings and wheels that gave him a job to do, that offered him the opportunity to work each day and really belong in the world. He smiled at the bus and in his eyes there was affection and gratitude.

  In the afternoon it was terribly hot, too hot for April, and it was sticky, almost stifling. But he didn't feel the weather. He told himself it was a fine day. From Easton to Philadelphia, the round trip, and then to Easton once more, and the hours passed swiftly, smoothly. He sat solidly behind the wheel, and without sound he spoke tenderly to his bus.

  “Now, let's take this hill—let's take it at forty—that's it, that's just right—around the curve now—easy—that's perfect—now another curve—you're clicking, kid—you're doing great—you're a damn fine bus, you're the finest thing on four wheels—”

  Through the windshield he saw the springtime green of the fields and hills, bright yellow-green under the sun. A succession of wonderful pastoral aromas came flowing toward him and he smelled the honeysuckle, the violet, the tangy fragrance of mint leaves. The delicious smells of springtime in the Delaware valley. He looked at the silver glow of the river shining in the sunlight, with the bright green slopes in the background, the Jersey shore. It was the kind of view they were always trying to put on canvas, or capture with a camera. But they couldn't see it the way he saw it. He saw it in a way that put the taste of nectar in his mouth. He felt it with the soaring, surging feeling of knowing fully and surely that after all, and aside from everything, there was really something to live for.

  It was like a noble contradiction against everything negative and rotten and sordid. It was the very substance of hope and quiet strength calmly denying the grime and decay of tenement walls and the cobbled streets along the Philadelphia water front. Up here along the hills and valleys the meaning of it all was forward and upward, clean and bright and serene. It proclaimed calmly, yet decisively, that indeed there were treasures to be found on this earth, treasures that demanded no payment and no effort other than the effort of seeing it and feeling it and knowing what it meant.

  Cassidy looked at the fields, at the river. The placid Delaware. The same Delaware that flowed past the Philadelphia water front. Along the piers of commerce it was a filthy river and it had a stench they called “that lousy river smell.” It seemed almost impossible that this was the same Delaware. It was as though the river back there was the river not only of a different place, but of a different time. As though this scene of the upper Delaware represented a forwardness of time. As though the Delaware between Philadelphia and Camden was something far back, something in the long ago, long dead.

  He told himself it was really dead. As far as he was concerned it was past history the kind of history not worth remembering. They were no longer streets but a cobbled stretch of graves where all of them were buried, and all the shouting and the curses and the sounds of thudding fists and broken glass were stifled. It was finished, it was done for, and it would be forgotten quickly. As one rides past a dead dog in the street, shudders at the sight, feels pity for an instant, and then rides on and forgets about it.

  It wouldn't take him long to forget Lundy's Place. And Pauline and Spann. And Shealy and all the others. He told himself to include Mildred. All right, that was easy. Mildred was included. Of course she was included. Why not? Why the hell not? It was a downright pleasure to include Mildred. The process of forgetting Mildred would be like emerging from the clatter and roar and blinding heat of a boiler room, and finding a quiet place and clean, fresh air.

  Because Mildred was only part of an interval, that was all. An interval of degradation, wherein he had voluntarily descended, viciously casting off every noble element of his being. In the same way that he had gulped alcohol to punish himself, he had married Mildred in the seething, crazy desire to contaminate his spirit by wedding it with that of a vile-mouthed water-front slut. The marriage itself was a mockery, a bizarre episode that might have taken place during a masquerade. Recalling the moment of marriage, the exact moment when he had put the ring on Mildred's finger, was like recalling the vivid colors and grotesque shapes on the cover of a horror magazine. The canopy was fire and the floor was hot coals. There were bridesmaids and they wore skin-tight bright red satin, and they had horns. The bride was given in marriage by a slimy, grinning monstrosity who kept prodding the groom with a huge, three-pronged fork. The bridegroom smiled and told the slimy one to keep it up, it felt fine.

  The road curved in front of the windshield and the side of a hill came up steeply and blocked Cassidy's view of the river. The hill was covered with dandelions and daisies. It was a pretty hill and then, as his eyes traveled upward along its slope, he saw the big advertising sign telling everybody to wise up and drink a certain brand of blended whisky.

  At eight-forty, as Cassidy completed his final run from Easton, the sky was darkening and the moon was out full and bright. As he stepped off the trolley at First and Arch, he sensed the mildness of the night, felt the breeze that seemed to act as a cleansing agent against sticky heat. He decided it would be a swell idea to take Doris for a walk in the park.

  He started toward Doris' place, thinking how nice it would be, their having dinner together. Chances were, she had cooked another fine dinner for him, but if not, he'd take her to a good restaurant and then they'd go over to Fairmount Park and walk around the fountain near the Parkway Museum. They'd walk for a while and when they got tired they'd sit on a bench and enjoy the evening breeze.

  But first, before dinner, he'd fill the tub with water and get in and use plenty of soap. He sure needed a bath. Under his driver's uniform his body felt caked with sweat and grime. He enjoyed anticipating the bath and then shaving and then putting on a clean shirt—

  He snapped his fingers, remembering that all his clothes and belongings were in the bedroom of the second story flat. He wondered if Mildred was there now. He told himself it didn't matter whether she was there or not. Damn it, he had a right to collect his clothes. But maybe she would start battling again, and he certainly didn't want that. His mouth tightened. If she knew what was good for her, she wouldn't start another fuss. She sure as hell better not start with him again. There were limits to what he would take from that no-good tramp. As it was, he had taken too much on the street corner this morning. If she started with him tonight, she'd wind up wearing bandages. Go on, let her start with him. Let her be there, waiting for him. Just let her start something.

  He walked faster, not realizing he actually hoped she was there, wanting to start something. As he entered the tenement building, he had his fists clenched. He hurried up the dark stairway and threw open the door and lunged into the flat.

  The living room was in the same disordered state. Either she had thrown another party or she hadn't moved a muscle to clean up the wreckage from three nights ago. He kicked a chair aside and walked into the bedroom and moved toward the closet. All at once he stopped to stare at an ash tray.

  The ash tray rested on a table beside the bed. He looked at the cigar stub in the ash tray. Then he looked at the crumpled sheets on the bed, and one of the pillows on the floor.

  Well? he asked himself. So what? What did it matter? It wasn't even worth thinking about. Of course he wasn't the least bit angry about it. Of course not. Why should he be? The way things were now, she had every right to do as she damn well pleased. If she wanted to invite Haney Kenrick up here and jump into bed with that fat greasy pig, then all right. Let her do it with Haney every night in the week, if that's what she wanted. Let Haney give her gifts, give her money, give her all the jazzing he was willing to pay for.

  Cassidy turned away from the bed and moved toward the closet. He told himself to hurry and collect his belongings and get the hell out.

  He opened the closet door. It was empty. He stood there blinking. The closet should have contained three suits and some slacks and a few pairs of shoes. The shelf at the top should have displayed at least a dozen shirts and an equal number of shorts and some socks and handkerchiefs.

  But none of it was there. Just an empty closet.

  Then he saw the slip of paper hooked onto a clothes hanger. He snatched at the paper and stared at her handwriting. He read the message half aloud. “If you want your clothes, go drag the river.”

  Cassidy mashed the note in his fist. He raised his arm high and slammed the ball of paper to the floor. He aimed a kick at the closet door and as it banged shut some splinters flew from the broken wood.

  He whirled about and saw the door of the other closet, the closet where she kept her clothes. He nodded grimly, crossed the room, telling himself what a fine time he would have, ripping every last dress to shreds with his bare hands.

  He pulled the door open and the closet was empty. The emptiness of the closet was like a face grinning at him. And then he saw another slip of paper, also hooked to a hanger. He took it off and read it in a hissing whisper. It was only three words, the middle word her favorite verb.

  The slip of paper drifted away from his hand. For some unaccountable reason the rage also drifted away and all he felt was a weird kind of sadness. Contained in it was a measure of self-pity. He was telling himself that some fools might think it funny. But there wasn't anything funny about a man losing every last goddamn stitch of clothes he owned.

  He gazed at the floor and shook his head slowly. What a cheap trick. What a lousy, rotten, shameful thing to do. For Christ's sake, if she wanted to get back at him she could have tried something else, couldn't she? Or at least she could have left him a shirt to put on his back, just one shirt.

  Then the rage came roaring back again and he jerked his head sideways and saw the dresser. He was thinking in terms of her bottles of toilet water, jars of creams, her lingerie, anything. Anything that he could get his hands on.

  The drawers of the dresser were empty. The emptiness of the final drawer was too much for him and he pulled it out all the way, pitched it across the room. It went flying through the doorway into the living room and crashed into a table.

  Moved out, he said to himself. Threw all his clothes in the Delaware and then got all her things together and moved out. He told himself her best move right now was to be on a train going out of town, because so help him, if she was anywhere in the vicinity, and if he laid his hands on her—.

  The helpless rage almost choked him as he walked out of the flat and started downstairs. As he left the tenement and came out into the night air his fists itched with the need to hit something. He turned a corner and he was telling himself to get in touch with Shealy. He'd ask Shealy to open up the chandlery and sell him some clothes. He knew Shealy would be in Lundy's Place, because Shealy was always at Lundy's Place after working hours.

  Cassidy started down Dock Street, going toward Lundy's. He knew he was in a hurry and couldn't understand why he wasn't speeding it up. He realized fully that he was walking slowly, almost with caution. And then the darkness of the street was acutely apparent to him. And the quiet of the street had a certain pressure, almost a weight that he could feel behind his back. The feeling grew and gradually it became the definite knowledge of approaching danger.

  He had no idea what it was. Or why it was happening. But just as sure as he had two feet on the ground he knew they were moving in behind him and he was going to be jumped.

  Just as he reached that conclusion he started to turn his head, to look behind him. In that moment they jumped him. He felt the blasting contact of something very hard coming down on his shoulder, knew it had missed his skull by inches. He ducked, pivoted, and saw the three of them.

  They were three big men, hulking water-front roughnecks. One of them was very tall and completely bald and had enormous hands. Another was built along the lines of a block of granite and had a mashed nose and twisted ears. The third man was very short, very wide, and carried a length of lead pipe. Cassidy didn't know any of them. All he knew was that there were three of them and someone had paid them cash to do a job on him.

  The lead pipe came swishing again at his head and he weaved to one side. He wasn't thinking of the lead pipe. He was thinking of his clothes at the bottom of the Delaware, the rotten trick that had been played on him and the fact that only minutes ago he had been wishing he could bash his fists into something. He saw the lead pipe coming at him once more and instead of trying to get away from it he threw his arm out, grabbed at it, caught it, pulled it and took it away from the short, wide man. Cassidy brandished the heavy pipe in mid-air.

  The two taller men came at him from either side but he paid no attention and walked in on the short, wide man and chopped with the lead pipe, catching the chunky target in the ribs. He let out a screech and doubled up and collapsed. The other men were in close and swinging at Cassidy and the big bald man caught him a crashing blow on the side of the head. Cassidy dropped the lead pipe as he fell back, and the full moon above his eyes became a pattern of many moons of different colors. He told himself it couldn't be that bad, he wasn't quite ready to go out. And somehow he managed to stay on his feet.

  He grinned at the two men as they advanced. Then, as they came in quickly, he rushed at them and had his left hand shooting out like a piston, catching the bald man in the eye. And again. And trying to get rid of the bald man in a hurry, because the primary trouble was the other man, the man with a mashed nose and twisted ears. That was a professional. That had been in the ring, in far too many rings, as the wrecked face testified. But it could still move and know its way around. And it could still hit.

  The bald man tried to duck under Cassidy's continued jabbing as Cassidy circled away from the plodding advance of the man with the mashed nose. Cassidy feinted with his right, jabbed the left again, then came in very close to blast with the right so that it hit solid and smashing on the turn of the jaw just under the ear. The bald man raised his arms slowly, spread his fingers, and fell, senseless.

  In that same instant the man with the mashed nose threw a left hook that caught Cassidy under the heart and Cassidy went down. The man grinned at him and gently beckoned him to get up. Cassidy started to get up and the man reached down and grabbed him under the arms and helped him up, then knocked him down again with a right hook to the head.

  The short, wide man had risen and taken hold of the lead pipe. With his other hand he held his burning broken ribs as he walked in and said, “Now let me have him.”

  “Naw,” the pug said, grinning. “This is mine.”

  “You're just playin' with him,” the chunky man said.

  “Playin'?” The pug reached down to lift Cassidy off the ground. “I wouldn't say that.” He was holding Cassidy upright and not even looking at Cassidy. “I think I'm doin' a fair job.”

  But it was too casual. The pug was taking too much for granted. Cassidy swung a low, underhand right that was intentionally very low. The pug's mouth opened wide. A scream came out.

  “Oh, no!” the pug screamed, walking away with his hands pressed against his body. “Oh, Jesus, no.”

  Then the pug sat down in the gutter and screamed and sobbed and said he was dying. The short, wide man took a tentative step toward Cassidy, saw Cassidy all set and ready for him, and decided it wasn't a good risk. The short, wide man dropped the lead pipe and started to walk away fast, and then ran.

  In the gutter the pug had stopped screaming. The sobs were gradually subsiding. Cassidy came over to him and said, “Who paid you?”

  “I can't talk. Hurts too much.”

  “Just tell me his name.”

  “Can't talk.”

  “Listen, John—”

  “Aw, leave me alone,” the man sobbed.

  “You'll talk, John. You'll tell me his name or we'll see the police.”

  “Police?” The pug forgot to sob. “Aw, look, gimme a break.”

  “All right. Just give me his name.”

  The pug took his hands away from his groin. He inhaled deeply, his head flung back. He said, “Named Haney. Haney Kenrick.”

  Cassidy walked away. He walked fast along Dock Street, going toward Lundy's Place.

  As he entered Lundy's, he saw Pauline and Spann and Shealy at their table in the far corner. He made his way to the table and saw them staring at his face. He wiped some blood away from his lip and sat down.

  “Who jumped you?” Spann asked.

  “Never mind,” Cassidy said. He looked at Shealy. “Do me a favor. I need some clothes. You got anything my size in the store?”

  Shealy stood up. “Should I bring it here?”

  Cassidy nodded. “If I'm not around when you come back, leave it with Lundy. Bring some shirts, pants, a whole outfit. I'll pay you Friday.”

  Shealy put his hands behind his back and looked down at the table. “It'll save time if I just take it over to Doris.”

  “You stay away from Doris,” Cassidy said. His gaze moved and included Pauline and Spann. “All of you, stay away from Doris.”

  “What goes on here?” Pauline asked.

  “A reformation,” Shealy murmured.

  “Now, look,” Cassidy said to Shealy. “I'm in a hurry and I don't want a discussion. You gonna get me some clothes or not?”

  Shealy nodded. He smiled sadly at Cassidy and left the table and walked out of Lundy's Place.