Said you're a stranger?"

"Yes."

"Then 'tain't your business."

That was that.

He left the park, and wandered into a thriving luncheonette. He tried
questioning the man behind the counter, who merely snickered and said:
"You stayin' with the Dawes, ain't you? Better ask Willie, then. He
knows the place better than anybody."

He asked about the execution, and the man stiffened.

"Don't think I can talk about that. Fella broke one of the Laws; that's
about it. Don't see where you come into it."

At eleven o'clock, he returned to the Dawes residence, and found Mom in
the kitchen, surrounded by the warm nostalgic odor of home-baked bread.
She told him that her husband had left a message for the stranger,
informing him that the State Police would be around to get his story.

He waited in the house, gloomily turning the pages of the local
newspaper, searching for references to Armagon. He found nothing.

At eleven-thirty, a brown-faced State Trooper came to call, and Sol told
his story. He was promised nothing, and told to stay in town until he
was contacted again by the authorities.

Mom fixed him a light lunch, the greatest feature of which was some hot
biscuits she plucked out of the oven. It made him feel almost normal.

He wandered around the town some more after lunch, trying to spark
conversation with the residents.

He learned little.

* * * * *

At five-thirty, he returned to the Dawes house, and was promptly leaped
upon by little Sally.

"Hi! Hi! Hi!" she said, clutching his right leg and almost toppling him
over. "We had a party in school. I had chocolate cake. You goin' to stay
with us?"

"Just another night," Sol told her, trying to shake the girl off. "If
it's okay with your folks. They haven't found my car yet."

"Sally!" Mom was peering out of the screen door. "You let Mr. Becker
alone and go wash. Your Pa will be home soon."

"Oh, pooh," the girl said, her pigtails swinging. "Do you got a
girlfriend, mister?"

"No." Sol struggled towards the house with her dead weight on his leg.
"Would you mind? I can't walk."

"Would you be my boyfriend?"

"Well, we'll talk about it. If you let go my leg."

Inside the house, she said: "We're having pot roast. You stayin'?"

"Of course Mr. Becker's stayin'," Mom said. "He's our guest."

"That's very kind of you," Sol said. "I really wish you'd let me pay
something--"

"Don't want to hear another word about pay