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At four o’clock on the afternoon of the third day Mr. Seeders came in. There were no customers at the tables. At the back end of the restaurant Tildy was refilling the mustard pots and Aileen was quartering pies.

would rush in suddenly and shoot her with a pistol. He must have loved her desperately; and impulsive lovers are always blindly jealous. Even Aileen had not been shot at with a pistol. And then Tildy rather hoped that he would not shoot at her, for she was always loyal to Aileen; and she did not want to overshadow her friend

So take your change and go – to the devil if you like. There you have Bogle’s sentiments. The needs of Bogle’s customers were supplied by two waitresses and a Voice. One of the waitresses was named Aileen She was tall, beautiful, lively, gracious

and learned in persiflage. Her other name? There was no more necessity for the other name at Bogle’s than there was for finger-bowls. The name of the other waitress was Tildy. Why do you suggest Matilda? Please listen this name – Tildy – Tildy. Tildy was dumpy, plain-faced, and too anxious to please to please

For two days Mr. Seeders came not again. During that time Tildy established herself firmly as a woman to be wooed. She bought ribbons, and arranged her hair like Aileen’s, and tightened her waist two inches. She had a thrilling but delightful fear that Mr. Seeders

Mr. Seeders walked back to were they stood. Tildy looked up and saw him, gasped, and pressed the mustard spoon upon her heart. A red hair – bow was in her hair; she wore Venus’s Eighth Avenue Badge, the blue bead necklace with the swinging silver symbolic heart

Wash Williams spat forth a succession of vile oaths. “Yes, she is dead,” he agreed. “She is dead as all women are dead. She is a living-dead thing, walking in the sight of men and making the earth foul by her presence.” Staring into the boy’s eyes, the

‘Wait,’ the editor said. ‘Wait.’ ‘And he will come in on Number Four the day after tomorrow and we will meet it, Miss Worsham and his grandmother, the old nigger, in my car and you and me in yours. Miss Worsham and the old woman will take him back home, back where he was born. Or where the old woman raised him. Or where she tried to. And the hearse out there will be fifteen more, not counting the flowers-’

‘No it aint all right,’ the editor said. ‘But it don’t look like I can help myself. By Jupiter,’ he said ‘even if I could help myself, the novelty will be almost worth it. It will be the first time in my life I ever paid money for copy I had already promised beforehand I won’t print.’ ‘Have already promised beforehand you will not print,’ Stevens said. And during the remainder of that hot and now windless afternoon, while officials from the city hall, and justices of the peace and bailiffs come fifteen and twenty miles from.’

the ends of the country, mounted the stairs to the empty office and called his name and cooled their heels a while and then went away and returned and sat again, fuming, Stevens passed from store to store and office to office about the square-merchant and clerk, proprietor and employee, doctor, dentist, lawyer, and barber – with his set and rapid speech: ‘It’s to bring a dead nigger home. It’s for Miss Worsham. Never mind about a paper to sign: just give me a dollar. Or half a dollar then. Or a quarter then

I don’t know yet. It will cost about two hundred. I’m not counting the telephones; I’ll take care of them myself. I’ll get something out of Carothers Edmonds the first time I catch him; I don’t know how much, but something. And maybe fifty around the square. But the rest of it is you and me, because she insisted on leaving twenty-five with me, which is just twice what I tried to persuade her it would cost and just exactly four times what she can afford to pay-’

man became purple with rage. “Don’t have fool notions in your head,” he commanded. “My wife, she is dead; yes, surely. I tell you, all women are dead, my mother, your mother, that tall dark woman who works in the millinery store and with whom I saw you walking about yesterday – all of them, they are all dead

If the transients were entranced by the fascinating Aileen, the regulars were her adorers. There was much rivalry among many of the steady customers. Aileen could have had an engagement every evening. At least twice a week someone took her to a theatre or to a dance. One stout gentleman

the Amusement Arcade. For a few moments Tildy stood petrified. Then she was aware of Aileen shaking at her an arch fore finger, and saying: ‘Why, Til, you naughty girl! Ain’t you getting to be awful, Miss Slyboots! First thing I know you’ll be stealing some of my fellows. I must keep an eye on you, my lady.’

At four o’clock on the afternoon of the third day Mr. Seeders came in. There were no customers at the tables. At the back end of the restaurant Tildy was refilling the mustard pots and Aileen was quartering pies.

Mr. Seeders walked back to were they stood. Tildy looked up and saw him, gasped, and pressed the mustard spoon upon her heart. A red hair – bow was in her hair; she wore Venus’s Eighth Avenue Badge, the blue bead necklace with the swinging silver symbolic heart

When Mr. Seeders had finished his weakfish he got up, put his arm around Tildy’s waist, kissed her loudly and impudently, walked out upon the street, snapped his fingers in the direction of the laundry, and hied himself to play pennies in the slot machines at

whom she and Tildy had privately christened ‘The Hog’presented her with a turquoise ring. Another one known as ‘Freshy’, who rode on the Traction Company’s repair wagon, was going to give her a poodle as soon as his brother got the hauling contract in the Ninth

Up along Main Street he went in the evening to Ed Griffith’s saloon, and after drinking unbelievable quantities of beer staggered off to his room in the New Willard House and to his bed for the night. Wash

and in spite of his degradement to the obscure office at Winesburg, he was still proud of his ability. Wash Williams did not associate with the men of the town in which he lived. ‘I’ll have nothing to do with them,” he said, looking with bleary eyes at the men who walked along the station platform past the telegraph office

Oh yes, Lord,’ Worsham said. ‘Hush,’ Miss Worsham said. ‘Hush, Hamp.’ ‘I telephoned Mr. Edmonds,’ Stevens said. ‘He will have everything ready when you get there.’ ‘Roth Edmonds sold him,’ the old Negress said. She swayed back and forth in the chair. ‘Sold my Benjamin.’ ‘Hush,’ Miss Worsham said. ‘Hush, Mollie. Hush now.’

‘No,’ Stevens said. ‘No he didn’t, Aunt Mollie. It wasn’t Mr. Edmonds. Mr Edmonds didn’t-’ But she can’t hear me, he thought. She was not even looking at him. She never had looked at him. ‘Sold my Benjamin,’ she said. ‘Sold him in Egypt.’ ‘Sold him in Egypt,’ Worsham said. ‘Roth Edmonds sold my Benjamin.’ ‘Sold him to Pharaoh.’ ‘Sold him to Pharaoh and now he dead.’ ‘I’ll better go,’ Stevens said. He rose quickly. Miss Worsham rose too, but he did not wait for her to precede him.

I go too fast. Not everything about Wash was unclean. He took care of his hands. His fingers were fat, but there was something sensitive and shapely in the hand that lay on the table by the instrument in the telegraph office. In his youth Wash Williams had been called the best telegraph operator in the state,

Williams was a man of courage. A thing had happened to him that made him hate life, and he hated it whole-heartedly, with the abandon of a poet. First of all, he hated women. “Bitches,” he called them. His feeling toward men was somewhat different

On the same hot, bright July morning the same hot bright wind which shook the mulberry leaves just outside Gavin Stevens’s window blew into the office too, contriving a semblance of coolness from what was merely motion. It fluttered among the country – attorney business on the desk and blue in the wild shock

He took the press association flimsy from its spike and handed it to Stevens. It was datelined from Joliet, Illinois, this morning: Mississippi negro, on eve of execution for murder of Chicago policeman, exposes alias by completing census questionnaire. Samuel Worsham Beauchamp-

The telegraph operator of Winesburg, sitting in the darkness on the railroad ties, had become a poet. Hatred had raised him to that elevation. “It is because I saw you kissing the lips of that Belle Carpenter that I tell you My story,” he said

“What happened to me may next happen to you. I want to put you on your guard. Already you may be having dreams in your head. I want to destroy them.” Wash Williams began telling the story of his married life with the tall blond girl with blue eyes whom he had met when he was a young operator at Dayton, Ohio

Well, he’s in worth trouble than that now. I don’t doubt her at all. I just hope, for her sake as well as that of the great public whom I represent, that his present trouble is very bad and maybe final too-’ ‘Wait,’ the editor said. He didn’t even need to leave his desk.

of prematurely white hair of the man who set behind it – a thin, intelligent, unstable face, a rumpled linen suit from whose lapel a Phi Beta Kappa key dangled on a watch-chain – Gavin Stevens, Phi Beta Kappa, Harvard, Ph.D., Heidelberg, whose office was his hobby, although it made his living for him, and whose serious vocation was a twenty-two-year-old unfinished translation of the Old Testament back into classic Greek