“Why, Quentin! Quentin Compson!” Then I saw Gerald, and Spoade in the back seat, sitting on the back of his neck. And Shreve. I didnt know the two girls.
“Quentin Compson!” Mrs. Bland said.
“Good afternoon,” I said, raising my hat. “I’m under arrest. I’m sorry I didnt get your note. Did Shreve tell you?”
“Under arrest?” Shreve said. “Excuse me,” he said. He heaved himself up and climbed over their feet and got out. He had on a pair of my flannel pants, like a glove. I didnt remember forgetting them. I didnt remember how many chins Mrs. Bland had, either. The prettiest girl was with Gerald in front, too. They watched me through veils, with a kind of delicate horror. “Who’s under arrest?” Shreve said. “What’s this, mister?”
“Gerald,” Mrs. Bland said, “Send these people away. You get in this car, Quentin.”
Gerald got out. Spoade hadnt moved.
“What’s he done, Cap?” he said. “Robbed a hen house?”
“I warn you,” Anse said. “Do you know the prisoner?”
“Know him,” Shreve said. “Look here—”
“Then you can come along to the squire’s. You’re obstructing justice. Come along.” He shook my arm.
“Well, good afternoon,” I said. “I’m glad to have seen you all. Sorry I couldnt be with you.”
“You, Gerald,” Mrs. Bland said.