My weight on the foot that blocked the door, I leaned sidewise, swaying to the Negro.
Slamming from the hip, I put my fist in the middle of him.
Reddy hit the door and we went into the hall.
“ ’Fore God, Fat Shorty,” the black man gasped in good black Virginian, “you done hurt me!”
Reddy and I went by him, down the hall whose bounds were lost in darkness.
The bottom of a flight of steps stopped my feet.
A gun went off upstairs. It seemed to point at us. We didn’t get the bullets.
A babel of voices—women screaming, men shouting—came and went upstairs; came and went as if a door was being opened and shut.
“Up, my boy!” Reddy yelped in my ear.
We went up the stairs. We didn’t find the man who had shot at us.
At the head of the stairs, a door was locked. Reddy’s bulk forced it.
We came into a bluish light. A large room, all purple and gold. Confusion of overturned furniture and rumpled rugs. A gray slipper lay near a far door. A green silk gown was in the center of the floor. No person was there.
I raced Pat to the curtained door beyond the slipper. The door was not locked. Reddy yanked it wide.
A room with three girls and a man crouching in a corner, fear in their faces. Neither of them was Myra Banbrock, or Raymond Elwood, or