“Yeah. How many got it last night, McVries?”

“Six.” McVries dug ajar of bacon spread out of his belt and began to finger it into his mouth. His hands were shaking badly. “Six since Barkovitch.” He put the jar back with an old man’s palsied care. “Pearson bought it.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s not many of us left, Garraty. Only twenty-six.”

“No, not many.” Walking through the fog was like walking through weightless clouds of mothdust.

“Not many of us, either. The Musketeers. You and me and Baker and Abraham. Collie Parker. And Stebbins. If you want to count him in. Why not? Why the fuck not? Let’s count Stebbins in, Garraty. Six Musketeers and twenty spearcarriers.”

“Do you still think I’ll win?”

“Does it always get this foggy up here in the spring?”

“What’s that mean?”

“No, I don’t think you’ll win. It’s Stebbins, Ray. Nothing can wear him down, he’s like diamonds. The word is Vegas likes him nine-to-one now that Scramm’s out of it. Christ, he looks almost the same now as when we started.”

Garraty nodded as if expecting this. He found his tube of beef concentrate and began to eat it. What he wouldn’t have given for some of McVries’s long-gone raw hamburger.

McVries snuffled a little and wiped a hand across his nose. “Doesn’t it seem strange to you? Being back on your home stomping grounds after all of this?”

Garraty felt the worm of excitement wriggle and turn again. “No,” he said. “It seems like the most natural thing in the world.”

They walked down a long hill, and McVries glanced up into white drive-in screen nothing. “The fog’s getting worse.”

“It’s not fog,” Garraty said. “It’s rain now.”

The rain fell softly, as if it had no intention of stopping for a very long time.

“Where’s Baker?”

“Back there someplace,” McVries said.

Without a word-words were almost unnecessary now-Garraty began dropping back. The road took them past a traffic island, past the rickety Porterville Rec Center with its five lanes of candlepins, past a dead black Government Sales building with a large MAY IS CONFIRM-YOUR-SEX MONTH sign in the window.

In the fog Garraty missed Baker and ended up walking beside Stebbins. Hard like diamonds, McVries had said. But this diamond was showing some small flaws, he thought. Now they were walking parallel to the mighty and dead-polluted Androscoggin River. On the other side the Porterville Weaving Company, a textile mill reared its turrets into the fog like a filthy medieval castle.

Stebbins didn’t look up, but Garraty knew Stebbins knew he was there. He said nothing, foolishly determined to make Stebbins say the first word. The road curved again. For a moment the crowd was gone as they crossed the bridge spanning the Androscoggin. Beneath them the water boiled along, sullen and salty, dressed with cheesy yellow foam.

“Well?”

“Save your breath for a minute,” Garraty said. “You’ll need it.”

They came to the end of the bridge and the crowd was with them again as they swung left and started up the Brickyard Hill. It was long, steep, and banked. The river was dropping away below them on the left, and on their right was an almost perpendicular upslope. Spectators clung to trees, to bushes, to each other, and chanted Garraty’s name. Once he had dated a girl who lived on Brickyard Hill, a girl named Carolyn. She was married now. Had a kid. She might have let him, but he was young and pretty dumb.

From up ahead Parker was giving a whispery, out-of-breath goddam! that was barely audible over the crowd. Garraty’s legs quivered and threatened to go to jelly, but this was the last big hill before Freeport. After that it didn’t matter. If he went to hell he went to hell. Finally they breasted it (Carolyn had nice breasts, she often wore cashmere sweaters) and Stebbins, panting just a little, repeated: “Well?”

The guns roared. A boy named Charlie Field bowed out of the Walk.

“Well, nothing,” Garraty said. “I was looking for Baker and found you in stead. McVries says he thinks you’ll win.”

“McVries is an idiot,” Stebbins said casually. “You really think you’ll see your girl, Garraty? In all these people?”

“She’ll be in the front,” Garraty said. “She’s got a pass.”

“The cops’ll be too busy holding everybody back to get her through to the front.”

“That isn’t true,” Garraty said. He spoke sharply because Stebbins had articulated his own deep fear. “Why do you want to say a thing like that?”

“It’s really your mother you want to see anyway.”

Garraty recoiled sharply. “What?”

“Aren’t you going to marry her when you grow up, Garraty? That’s what most little boys want.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Am I?”

“Yes!”

“What makes you think you deserve to win, Garraty? You’re a second-class intellect, a second-class physical specimen, and probably a second-class libido. Garraty, I’d bet my dog and lot you never slipped it to that girl of yours.”

“Shut your goddam mouth!”

“Virgin, aren’t you? Maybe a little bit queer in the bargain? Touch of the lavender? Don’t be afraid. You can talk to Papa Stebbins.”

“I’ll walk you down if I have to walk to Virginia, you cheap fuck!” Garraty was shaking with anger. He could not remember being so angry in his whole life.

“That’s okay,” Stebbins said soothingly. “I understand.”

“Motherfucker! You!-”

“Now there’s an interesting word. What made you use that word?”

For a moment Garraty was sure he must throw himself on Stebbins or faint with rage, yet he did neither. “If I have to walk to Virginia,” he repeated. “If I have to walk all the way to Virginia.”

Stebbins stretched up on his toes and grinned sleepily. “I feel like I could walk all the way to Florida, Garraty.”

Garraty lunged away from him, hunting for Baker, feeling the anger and rage die into a throbbing kind of shame. He supposed Stebbins thought he was an easy mark. He supposed he was.

Baker was walking beside a boy Garraty didn’t know. His head was down, his lips moving a little.

“Hey, Baker,” Garraty said.

Baker started, then seemed to shake himself all over, like a dog. “Garraty,” he said. “You.”

“Yea, me.”

“I was having a dream-an awful real one. What time?”

Garraty checked. “Almost twenty to seven.”

“Will it rain all day, you think?”

“I… uh!” Garraty lurched forward, momentarily off balance. “My damn shoe-heel came off,” he said.

“Get rid of ’em both,” Baker advised. “The nails will get to pokin’ through. And you have to work harder when you’re off balance.”

Garraty kicked off one shoe and it went end over end almost to the edge of the crowd, where it lay like a small crippled puppy. The hands of Crowd groped for it eagerly. One snared it, another took it away, and there was a violent, knotted struggle over it. His other shoe would not kick off; his foot had swelled tight inside it. He knelt, took his warning, untied it, and took it off. He considered throwing it to the crowd and then left it lying on the road instead. A great and irrational wave of despair suddenly washed over him and he thought: I have lost my shoes. I have lost my shoes.

The pavement was cold against his feet. The ripped remains of his stockings were soon soaked. Both feet looked strange, oddly lumpish. Garraty felt despair turn to pity for his feet. He caught up quickly with Baker, who was also walking shoeless. “I’m about done in,” Baker said simply.

“We all are.”

“I get to remembering all the nice things that ever happened to me. The first time I took a girl to a dance and there was this big ole drunk fella that kep tryin’ to cut in and I took him outside and whipped his ass for him. I was only able to because he was so drunk. And that girl looked at me like I was the greatest thing since the internal combustion engine. My first bike. The first time I read The Woman in White, by Wilkie Collins… that’s my favorite book, Garraty, should anyone ever ask you. Sittin’ half asleep by some mudhole with a fishin’ line and catchin’ crawdaddies by the thousands. Layin’ in the backyard and sleepin’ with a Popeye funnybook over my face. I think about those things, Garraty. Just lately. Like I was old and gettin’ senile.”