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"
I
remember
years
like
that
,
"
said
the
junkman
.
He
looked
off
at
the
sky
and
there
were
all
the
years
.
"
So
there
you
are
,
Mr
.
Jonas
.
That
’
s
it
.
That
’
s
why
he
’
s
dying
.
.
.
"
Tom
stopped
and
looked
away
.
"
Let
me
think
,
"
said
Mr
.
Jonas
.
"
Can
you
help
,
Mr
.
Jonas
?
Can
you
?
"
Mr
.
Jonas
looked
deep
in
the
big
old
wagon
and
shook
his
head
.
Now
,
in
the
sunlight
,
his
face
looked
tired
and
he
was
beginning
to
perspire
.
Then
he
peered
into
the
mounds
of
vases
and
peeling
lamp
shades
and
marble
nymphs
and
satyrs
made
of
greening
copper
.
He
sighed
.
He
turned
and
picked
up
the
reins
and
gave
them
a
gentle
shake
.
"
Tom
,
"
he
said
,
looking
at
the
horse
’
s
back
,
"
I
’
ll
see
you
later
.
I
got
to
plan
.
I
got
to
look
around
and
come
again
after
supper
.
Even
then
,
who
knows
?
Until
then
.
.
.
"
He
reached
down
and
picked
up
a
little
set
of
Japanese
wind
-
crystals
.
"
Hang
these
in
his
upstairs
window
.
They
make
a
nice
cool
music
!
"
Tom
stood
with
the
wind
-
crystals
in
his
hands
as
the
wagon
rolled
away
.
He
held
them
up
and
there
was
no
wind
,
they
did
not
move
.
They
could
not
make
a
sound
.
Seven
o
’
clock
.
The
town
resembled
a
vast
hearth
over
which
the
shudderings
of
heat
moved
again
and
again
from
the
west
.
Charcoal
-
colored
shadows
quivered
outward
from
every
house
,
every
tree
.
A
red
-
haired
man
moved
along
below
.
Tom
,
seeing
him
illumined
by
the
dying
but
ferocious
sun
,
saw
a
torch
proudly
carrying
itself
,
saw
a
fiery
fox
,
saw
the
devil
marching
in
his
own
country
.
