William Faulkner, SANCTUARY – WordPress.com - literature save 2

loomed. In the yard, beneath the barred window, a man in his shirt sleeves faced the
crowd, hoarse, gesticulant. The barred window was empty.
Horace went on toward the square. The sheriff was among the drummers before
the hotel, standing along the curb. He was a fat man, with a broad, dull face which belied
the expression of concern about his eyes. "They won't do anything," he said. "There is too
much talk. Noise. And too early. When a mob means business, it dont take that much
time and talk. And it dont go about its business where every man can see it."
The crowd stayed in the street until late. It was quite orderly, though. It was as
though most of them had come to see, to look at the jail and the barred window, or to
listen to the man in shirt sleeves. After a while he talked himself out. Then they began to
move away, back to the square and some of them homeward, until there was left only a
small group beneath the arc light at the entrance to the square, among whom were two
temporary deputies, and the night marshal in a broad pale hat, a flash light, a time clock
and a pistol. "Git on home now," he said. "Show's over. You boys done had your fun. Git
on home to bed, now."
The drummers sat a while longer along the curb before the hotel, Horace among
them; the south-bound train ran at one o'clock. "They're going to let him get away with it,
are they?" a drummer said. "With that corn cob? What kind of folks have you got here?
What does it take to make you folks mad?"
"He wouldn't a never got to trial, in my town," a second said.
"To jail, even," a third said. "Who was she?"
"College girl. Good looker. Didn't you see her?"
"I saw her. She was some baby. Jeez. I wouldn't have used no cob."
Then the square was quiet. The clock struck eleven; the drummers went in and the
negro porter came and turned the chairs back into the wall. "You waiting for the train?"
he said to Horace.
"Yes. Have you got a report on it yet?"
"It's on time. But that's two hours yet. You could lay down in the Sample Room,
if you want."
"Can I'll' Horace said.
"I'll show you," the negro said. The Sample Room was where the drummers
showed their wares. It contained a sofa. Horace turned off the light and lay down on the
sofa. He could see the trees about the courthouse, and one wing of the building rising
above the quiet and empty square. But people were not asleep. He could feel the
wakefulness, the people awake about the town. "I could not have gone to sleep, anyway,"
he said to himself.
He heard the clock strike twelve. Then--it might have been thirty minutes or
maybe longer than that--he heard someone pass under the window, running. The runner's
feet sounded louder than a horse, echoing across the empty square, the peaceful hours
given to sleeping. It was not a sound Horace heard now; it was something in the air which
the sound of the running feet died into.
When he went down the corridor toward the stairs he did not know he was
running until he heard beyond a door a voice say, "Fire! it's a . . ." Then he passed it. "I
scared him," Horace said. "He's just from Saint Louis, maybe, and he's not used to this."
He ran out of the hotel, onto the street. Ahead of him the proprietor had just run,
ludicrous; a broad man with his trousers clutched before him and his braces dangling