And quickly then from a window across the way Colonel Freeleigh leaned out with the face of a clock, and buffalo dust sprang up in the street. Colonel Freeleigh spanged and rattled, his jaw fell open, a mainspring shot out and dangled on the air instead of his tongue. He collapsed like a puppet on the sill, one arm still waving....
Mr. Auffmann rode by in something that was bright and something like the trolley and the green electric runabout; and it trailed glorious clouds and it put out your eyes like the sun. "Mr. Auffmann, did you invent it?" he cried. "Did you finally build the Happiness Machine?"
But then he saw there was no bottom to the machine. Mr. Auffmann ran along on the ground, carrying the whole incredible frame from his shoulders.
"Happiness, Doug, here goes happiness!" And he went the way of the trolley, John Huff, and the dove-fingered ladies.
Above on the roof a tapping sound. Tap-rap-bang. Pause. Tap-rap-bang. Nail and hammer. Hammer and nail. A bird choir. And an old woman singing in a frail but hearty voice.
"Yes, we'll gather at the river ... river ... river ...
Yes, we'll gather at the river ...
That flows by the throne of God ..."
"Grandma! Great-grandma!"
Tap, softly, tap. Tap, softly, tap.
"... river ... river ..."
And now it was only the birds picking up their tiny feet and putting them down again on the roof. Rattle-rattle. Scratch. Peep. Peep. Soft. Soft.
"... river ..."
Douglas took one breath and let it all out at once, wailing.
He did not hear his mother run into the room.
A fly, like the burning ash of a cigarette, fell upon his senseless hand, sizzled, and flew away.
Four o'clock in the afternoon. Flies dead on the pavement. Dogs wet mops in their kennels. Shadows herded under trees. Downtown stores shut up and locked. The lake shore empty. The lake full of thousands of people up to their necks in the warm but soothing water.
Four-fifteen. Along the brick streets of town the junk wagon moved, and Mr. Jonas singing on it.
Tom, driven out of the house by the scorched look on Douglas's face, walked slowly down to the curb as the wagon stopped.
"Hi, Mr. Jonas."
"Hello, Tom."
Tom and Mr. Jonas were alone on the street with all that beautiful junk in the wagon to look at and neither of them looking at it. Mr. Jonas didn't say anything right away. He lit his pipe and puffed it, nodding his head as if he knew before he asked, that something was wrong.
"Tom?" he said.
"It's my brother," said Tom. "It's Doug."
Mr. Jonas looked up at the house.
"He's sick," said Tom. "He's dying!"
"Oh, now, that can't be so," said Mr. Jonas, scowling around at the very real world where nothing that vaguely looked like death could be found on this quiet day.
"He's dying," said Tom. "And the doctor doesn't know what's wrong. The heat, he said, nothing but the heat. Can that be, Mr. Jonas? Can the heat kill people, even in a dark room?"
"Well," said Mr. Jonas and stopped.
For Tom was crying now.