Emile felt the car settle. He knew what had happened but he went on moving slowly. The deflated tire slumped against the shoe and he could not get up much speed but he thought he might outstrip his pursuers. Alberta Street at that point went steeply downhill for perhaps half a mile. On the left was a large tract of empty land. The owner (old Mrs. Kramer) was asking ten thousand an acre and the property hadn’t moved. It had gone to deep grass and scrub wood and on every wild cherry and sumac tree there was nailed the name and telephone number of some real-estate agent. Emile thought that if he got to Delos Circle he might be in the clear. He speeded up going downhill, but just as his headlights reached Delos Circle he saw the housewives of Remsen Park, thirty or forty of them, most of them wearing long robes and what appeared to be massive crowns. He swung the car sharply to the left, bumped over the curb and the sidewalk into the unsold house lots and drove straight to the far boundary of the property. He was trapped but he still had some time at his disposal. He cut the motor and the lights, ran around to the back and opened the luggage compartment and began to pitch the eggs off into the deep grass. He had a good wing and by heaving the eggs far away from him he was able to divert the advancing crowd. His arm got lame before long and then he began to take the egg crates and dump their contents into the grass. He disposed of all but one before the women reached him and straightened up to see them, so like angels in their nightclothes, and hear their soft cries of longing and excitement. Then with a single egg in his pocket—a golden one—he cut back through the woods.
The pain of the blow that had stunned Mr. Freeley drew him back into consciousness. His head felt broken. He found himself lashed by wire to a post in a cellar. He shook with cold and saw that he had nothing on but his underpants. At first he thought he had lost his mind but the centralizing force of pain in his head gave a terrible vividness and reality to his circumstances. He was a big man, his body carpeted with the brindle hair of middle age. The wires that bound him cut deeply into his fleshy arms and his hands were numb. Suddenly he roared for help but there was no reply. He had been robbed and beaten and now he was trapped and helpless in some place that seemed to be underground. The outrageousness of the situation—and panic—made him feel that his brain was cracking open and when he trembled the wire cut his skin. Then he heard footsteps and voices upstairs, the voices of the hoods. They came, one by one, into the cellar. It was the same three. There was the leader, then there was one with a fat face and then a thin, pale one with long hair.
“Chicken,” the leader said, looking at him.
“What do you want from me?” Mr. Freeley said. “You have my money. Was it because of that girl at the high school?”
“I don’t know nothing about no girl at no high school,” the leader said. “I just don’t like your looks, chicken, that’s all. What’s the matter, chicken? Why you shaking so? You afraid we’re going to torture you with matches and all?” He struck a match and held it close to Mr. Freeley’s skin but he didn’t burn him. “Look at chicken. Chicken’s afraid of dying. That’s why I don’t like your looks, chicken. Jesus, listen to chicken roar.”
Mr. Freeley roared. The floor tipped first to the left, then to the right and he lost consciousness again. Then he felt that he was being touched. He was being cut down. He could feel the loosening of the wires and the rush of blood back into his arms. He would have fallen but someone caught him and supported him. It was the pale one with the long, oily hair. He led Mr. Freeley over to the corner where there was an old automobile seat and he fell onto it.
“Where are the others?” he asked.
“They gone,” the boy said. “They got scared when you blacked out.”
“You?”
“I’m scared all the time.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing now. It’s just like he said. He don’t like your looks. You want some water?”
“Yes.”
The boy got some water and held the glass to his lips.
“When can I go?”
“Go,” the boy said. “Your suit’s upstairs. It didn’t fit nobody. Harry took your watch. I didn’t take nothing. Goodbye, now.”
He swung out of the door and Mr. Freeley heard him run lightly up some stairs. He felt his head wound and then he felt his arms and legs. Everything seemed to be sound and he went feebly up the stairs. His suit was by the door and when he got outside he saw that he was in an abandoned roadhouse at the edge of town.
