Bryce Walton

“ He recalled the trestle west of the forest where the bindlestiffs from the Pacific Fruit line jungled up at nights, or during long layovers. Sometimes they came into the forest.
He was big, fat and awkward. He was puffing and blowing, and he began to groan as Doctor Spechaug's fists thudded into his flesh. The degenerate fell to his knees, his broken face blowing out bloody air. Finally he rolled over onto his side with a long sighing moan, lay limply, very still. Doctor Spechaug's lips were thin, white, as he kicked savagely. ”

“ His wife always did them up so nicely with the peasant's love for trivial detail.
He had always hated the silent ignorance of the peasants who surrounded the little college where he taught psychology. He supposed that he had begun to hate his wife, too, when he realized, after taking her from a local barnyard and marrying her, that she could never be anything but a sloe-eyed, shuffling peasant.
He walked on with brisk health down the narrow dirt road that led toward Glen Oaks. Elm trees lined the road. The morning air was damp and cool. ”

“ Doctor Spechaug felt strangely uneasy then, a kind of dreadful loneliness.
"Superstition," he said. "Our Old World background, where superstition is the rule, old, very old superstition. Frightened by them when we were young. Now those childhood fixations reveal themselves in crazy symptoms."
He took off his coat, threw it into the brush. He rolled up his shirt sleeves. No blood visible now. He should be able to catch the little local passenger train out of Glen Oaks without any trouble. But why should there be any trouble? ”

“ But the faces of the four men exuded cold animal hate, and blood-lust.
Edith Bailey's lips said faintly, "What—what are we going to do?"
He felt so calm. He felt his lips writhe back in a snarl. The wind tingled on his teeth. "I know now," he said. "I know about the minutes I lost. I know why they're after me. You'd better get away." ”

“ I changed it because I thought Bailey more American."
"Both from Hungary," mused Doctor Spechaug. "I remember very little of Hungary. I came here when I was three. All I remember are the ignorant peasants. Their dumb, blind superstition—their hatred for——"
"You're afraid of them, aren't you?" she said.
He started. "The peasants. I——" He shook his head. "Perhaps."
"You're afraid," she said. "Would you mind telling me, Doctor, how these fears of yours manifest themselves?"
He hesitated; they walked. Finally he answered. "I've never told anyone but you. There are hidden fears. ”