He and Draeger were putting doggedly up the river in a boat that looked none too sound, with an outboard motor that looked even less reliable. The rain had let up and leveled out to its usual winter-long pace ...not so much a rain as a dreamy smear of blue-gray that wipes over the land instead of falling on it, making patient spectral shades of the tree trunks and a pathic, placid, and cordial sighing sound all along the broad river. A friendly sound, even. It was nothing fearful after all. The same old rain, and, if not welcomed, at least accepted—an old gray aunt who came to visit every winter and stayed till spring. You learn to live with her. You learn to reconcile yourself to the little inconveniences and not get annoyed. You remember she is seldom angry or vicious and nothing to get in a stew about, and if she is a bore and stays overlong you can train yourself not to notice her, or at least not to stew about her. Which was what Evenwrite attempted to do as he and Draeger rode up river in the open launch they had rented from Mama Olson. He succeeded in ignoring the actual raindrops and was partially successful in his attempt to keep from stewing about the damp wind, but try as he might, he couldn’t overlook the stream pouring down his neck and into his pants. They had been better than an hour coming from the moorage at Mama Olson’s dock at the cannery to the Stamper house, twice as long as it should have taken because he hadn’t thought to check the tides and catch an up-river flow. Evenwrite hunched near the motor in chilled silence; at first he had been angry with Draeger, who had suggested paying Mr. Stamper this senseless social call; he then became furious with himself, not only for forgetting to check the tides but for insisting to Draeger that they go up in a rented boat instead of driving up and honking for Stamper to come across and get them at the garage. (“He might not come across to pick us up when we get there,” he had told Draeger when the man had asked about driving to the Stamper house, “an’ even if he does, the bastard might not take us back across”—knowing better, knowing Hank would have greatly enjoyed this sort of chance to be neighborly and helpful, would probably have been just nice as pie, the sonofabitch!)—and, finally, he had become absolutely enraged with Mama Olson for loaning him a poncho that was so frigging full of holes it practically drowned him and ruined his goddam pack of cigarettes. (But by god if you ever catch Floyd Evenwrite begging for anything, be it smokes, matches, or that plastic tarp he’s sitting on and me soaked to the goddam skin!) Draeger sat barely visible in the twisting dark in the bow of the boat with his pipe bowl turned upside down against the rain, saying nothing to make the trip any more enjoyable. (In fact, the sonofabitch never has anything to say! other’n “Let’s talk things over.” And I’m getting tired of that.) How Draeger had risen to the top in the labor business was something Even-write found increasingly hard to comprehend. There seemed to be nothing to him but front. He hadn’t done a goddam thing about the strike in the whole time he’d been in town, after being a week late to boot—just walked around nodding and grinning like a nincompoop. (Except—it’s funny—except all the time he’s taking notes in that little book.) He hadn’t asked a thing about the minutes of the walk-out meeting (but funny thing is you feel he’s already got it wrote down) or about the morale of the members after a long strike, or the dwindling strike funds, or any of the stuff Evenwrite had been prepared to answer. (Like he thinks he knows so goddam much he don’t have to stoop to ask question of dumb-asses like us!) One thing, though, that Evenwrite had to give him credit for (now he might think just because of some goddam college-degree friend in Washington or something that he can come around here expecting us to kiss his feet . . .) and that was the man’s impressive and calm way of handling the members, (. . . but he’ll see he’s got another think coming). Also Floyd had to admire the way he kept them in line, the way he kept them aware that he was the man at the controls (I’ll have to learn how to bring that off ) and that they were just the rank and file (that’s only way to command any kind of respect and get any kind of discipline outa the bunch of knot-heads). So Evenwrite fumed and fretted, worshiped and hated all the silent trip up the river, and wished Draeger would say something so he could grunt just enough answer to show that Floyd Evenwrite didn’t give a good goddam for him, he didn’t care if he was president of the whole United States! The window lights of the house came into view. “Balls,” Evenwrite said finally, without being asked, making the word a general, all-encompassing denouncement. He swallowed hard: he was cold, he wasn’t looking forward to this meeting, and he was longing so for a cigarette that the smoke from Draeger’s pipe was bringing tears to his eyes. They tied the launch to the marker at the dock and stepped out into a smothering dark that reminded him of the flashlight left lying in the front seat of his car. “Balls again,” Evenwrite said, more softly. Draeger wondered if they shouldn’t call to the house for a lantern but Evenwrite vetoed the idea: “You don’t catch me asking for a lantern” and added in a terse whisper, “They probably wouldn’t bring one out anyway.” With the running lights of the boat extinguished, and the kitchen window cut off behind the thick vine hedge, the darkness was terrible. Each match they tried hissed out immediately, as though pinched by invisible wet fingers; they gave up all hope of light and began shuffling blind along the slippery, slopping planks, hearing the river inches away in the night. Evenwrite led the way inch by inch, feeling ahead with his feet, both arms extended well in front of him. They both remained perfectly silent, as though coerced by the shushing of the rain, until Evenwrite ran his forehead into a piling pole; it was so inconceivable to him that any innocent object of the night could get past his double straight-arm guard that he thought someone lying in ambush had clubbed him. “Dirty bastard!” he cried, throwing both arms about his mysterious assailant. Who was clothed in a garment of cold, wet slime and barnacle shells. “Oh!” he cried again a bit too loud, and from beneath the house came a black boiling of frenzied beasts, roaring down on him pitilessly. “Oh dear Lord,” he whispered as the unseen pack bore down, rumbling the planks with a rhythm of galloping claws, baying, snarling and yipping. “Oh dear Jesus.” He released the post, threw both arms instead around Draeger, and clung there in shameless terror. “Oh me, oh me, oh me!” With the beam of his flashlight Joe Ben found them clutched thus, swaying in the rain as the dogs surrounded them in a frenzy of delight and welcome. “Why, look here,” Joe called good-naturedly. “Why, it’s Floyd Evenwrite an’ a date, I guess. Come on inside, fellows, where we got a nice fire goin’.” Evenwrite blinked stupidly at the light, becoming more and more certain that his most pessimistic reservations about this excursion would undoubtedly be realized. “Sure!” Joe called once more. “Whatever you’re doin’ you can do better in the warm.” Draeger untangled himself from Evenwrite’s grip and smiled back at Joe. “Thank you, I believe we will.” He accepted the invitation as pleasantly as it had been extended. In the living room Viv brought them hot coffee. The old man spiked the cof............