ing through streets heavily compressed, the atmosphere weighing down stickily, making each step difficult, like a diver plodding deep upon the bottom of the sea.
In the morning, cloud shapes, queer faces in towering white cumulus, whisk of telegraph poles passing the train, thin emptiness at the pit of his stomach. Coffee, sleep, warm sun beating through the window panes and Ken felt energy returning to his body.
Joe sat beside him.
"Better this morning?" he asked. Ken nodded.
"What happened to the others?" Ken asked.
"They took the Saturday night train to town. You barged into the theatre at ten o'clock that night. You was a sight. Dirty. Clothes torn. What did Rocco do to you?"
"I don't remember," Ken said.
"Lucky you got out alive. I heard he kills 'em afterwards."
Ken laughed. "That's fantastic," he said. Then added: "But so is everything."
Not without trepidation did Ken say, "There's Howard." He saw him in the crowd lining the train exit.
"Why didn't you tell me he was back?" he asked Joe.
"I didn't know."
"Beat it," Ken ordered. "Take your bags and this one of mine to the Gladwell. I'll meet you there."
Howard was pushing his way through the crowd to meet him. He was smiling. He reached Ken's side, grasped his hand, said something about Ken's health and was chatting in short broken excited phrases as he held Ken's arm and guided him to the taxicab gate.
"I landed Friday. Heard you were ill. Had father on the
