Looking cautiously about, George Willard arose from his desk in the
office of the _Winesburg Eagle_ and went hurriedly out at the back
door. The night was warm and cloudy and although it was not yet eight
o’clock, the alleyway back of the _Eagle_ office was pitch dark. A team
of horses tied to a post somewhere in the darkness stamped on the
hard-baked ground. A cat sprang from under George Willard’s feet and
ran away into the night. The young man was nervous. All day he had gone
about his work like one dazed by a blow. In the alleyway he trembled as
though with fright.
In the darkness George Willard walked along the alleyway, going
carefully and cautiously. The back doors of the Winesburg stores were
open and he could see men sitting about under the store lamps. In
Myerbaum’s Notion Store Mrs. Willy the saloon keeper’s wife stood by
the counter with a basket on her arm. Sid Green the clerk was waiting
on her. He leaned over the counter and talked earnestly.
George Willard crouched and then jumped through the path of light that
came out at the door. He began to run forward in the darkness. Behind
Ed Griffith’s saloon old Jerry Bird the town drunkard lay asleep on the
ground. The runner stumbled over the sprawling legs. He laughed
brokenly.
George Willard had set forth upon an adventure. All day he had been
trying to make up his mind to go through with the adventure and now he
was acting. In the office of the _Winesburg Eagle_ he had been sitting
since six o’clock trying to think.
There had been no decision. He had just jumped to his feet, hurried
past Will Henderson who was reading proof in the printshop and started
to run along the alleyway.
Through street after street went George Willard, avoiding the people
who passed. He crossed and recrossed the road. When he passed a street
lamp he pulled his hat down over his face. He did not dare think. In
his mind there was a fear but it was a new kind of fear. He was afraid
the adventure on which he had set out would be spoiled, that he would
lose courage and turn back.
George Willard found Louise Trunnion in the kitchen of her father’s
house. She was washing dishes by the light of a kerosene lamp. There
she stood behind the screen door in the little shedlike kitchen at the
back of the house. George Willard stopped by a picket fence and tried
to control the shaking of his body. Only a narrow potato patch
separated him from the adventure. Five minutes passed before he felt
sure enough of himself to call to her. “Louise! Oh, Louise!” he called.
The cry stuck in his throat. His voice became a hoarse whisper.
Louise Trunnion came out across the potato patch holding the dish cloth
in her hand. “How do you know I want to go out with you,” she said
sulkily. “What makes you so sure?”
George Willard did not answer. In silence the two stood in the darkness
with the fence between them. “You go on along,” she said. “Pa’s in
there. I’ll come along. You wait by Williams’ barn.”
The young newspaper reporter had received a letter from Louise
Trunnion. It had come that morning to the office of the _Winesburg
Eagle_. The letter was brief. “I’m yours if you want me,” it said. He
thought it annoying that in the darkness by the fence she had pretended
there was nothing between them. “She has a nerve! Well, gracious sakes,
she has a nerve,” he muttered as he went along the street and passed a
row of vacant lots where corn grew. The corn was shoulder high and had
been planted right down to the sidewalk.
When Louise Trunnion came out of the front door of her house she still
wore the gingham dress in which she had been washing dishes. There was
no hat on her head. The boy could see her standing with the doorknob in
her hand talking to someone within, no doubt to old Jake Trunnion, her
father. Old Jake was half deaf and she shouted. The door closed and
everything was dark and silent in the little side street. George
Willard trembled more violently than ever.
In the shadows by Williams’ barn George and Louise stood, not daring to
talk. She was not particularly comely and there was a black smudge on
the side of her nose. George thought she must have rubbed her nose with
her finger after she had been handling some of the kitchen pots.
The young man began to laugh nervously. “It’s warm,” he said. He wanted
to touch her with his hand. “I’m not very bold,” he thought. Just to
touch the folds of the soiled gingham dress would, he decided, be an
exquisite pleasure. She began to quibble. “You think you’re better than
I am. Don’t tell me, I guess I know,” she said drawing closer to him.
A flood of words burst from George Willard. He remembered the look that
had lurked in the girl’s eyes when they had met on the streets and
thought of the note she had written. Doubt left him. The whispered
tales concerning her that had gone about town gave him confidence. He
became wholly the male, bold and aggressive. In his heart there was no
sympathy for her. “Ah, come on, it’ll be all right. There won’t be
anyone know anything. How can they know?” he urged.
They began to walk along a narrow brick sidewalk between the cracks of
which tall weeds grew. Some of the bricks were missing and the sidewalk
was rough and irregular. He took hold of her hand that was also rough
and thought it delightfully small. “I can’t go far,” she said and her
voice was quiet, unperturbed.
They crossed a bridge that ran over a tiny stream and passed another
vacant lot in which corn grew. The street ended. In the path at the
side of the road they were compelled to walk one behind the other. Will
Overton’s berry field lay beside the road and there was a pile of
boards. “Will is going to build a shed to store berry crates here,”
said George and they sat down upon the boards.
When George Willard got back into Main Street it was past ten o’clock
and had begun to rain. Three times he walked up and down the length of
Main Street. Sylvester West’s Drug Store was still open and he went in
and bought a cigar. When Shorty Crandall the clerk came out at the door
with him he was pleased. For five minutes the two stood in the shelter
of the store awning and talked. George Willard felt satisfied. He had
wanted more than anything else to talk to some man. Around a corner
toward the New Willard House he went whistling softly.
On the sidewalk at the side of Winney’s Dry Goods Store where there was
a high board fence covered with circus pictures, he stopped whistling
and stood perfectly still in the darkness, attentive, listening as
though for a voice calling his name. Then again he laughed nervously.
“She hasn’t got anything on me. Nobody knows,” he muttered doggedly and
went on his way.