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“Keep it clean,” he said. “We’re all gentlemen here.”

“Who was killed?” asked my father.

“An Italian,” said the guard.

“Who?” asked the little man very brightly.

“An Italian,” the guard repeated to my father.

“Who killed him?” asked the little man looking at the sergeant and opening his eyes wide.

“You’re pretty funny,” the guard said.

“No sir,” the little man said. “I just asked you, Sergeant, who killed this Italian.”

“He killed this Italian,” the prisoner on the front seat said looking toward the detective. “He killed this Italian with his bow and arrow.”

“Cut it out,” said the detective.

“Sergeant,” the little man said. “I did not kill this Italian. I would not kill an Italian. I do not know an Italian.”

“Write it down and use it against him,” the prisoner on the front seat said. “Everything he says will be used against him. He did not kill this Italian.”

“Sergeant,” asked the little man, “who did kill this Italian?”

“You did,” said the detective.

“Sergeant,” said the little man. “That is a falsehood. I did not kill this Italian. I refuse to repeat it. I did not kill this Italian.”

“Everything he says must be used against him,” said the other prisoner. “Sergeant, why did you kill this Italian?”

“It was an error, Sergeant,” the little prisoner said. “It was a grave error. You should never have killed this Italian.”

“Or that Italian,” the other prisoner said.

“Shut to hell up the both of you,” said the sergeant. “They’re dope heads,” he said to my father. “They’re crazy as bed bugs.”

“Bed bugs?” said the little man, his voice rising. “There are no bed bugs on me, Sergeant.”

“He comes from a long line of English earls,” said the other prisoner. “Ask the senator there,” he nodded at my father.

“Ask the little man there,” said the first prisoner. “He’s just George Washington’s age. He cannot tell a lie.”

“Speak up, boy,” the big prisoner stared at me.

“Cut it out,” the guard said.

“Yes, Sergeant,” said the little prisoner. “Make him cut it out. He’s got no right to bring in the little lad.”

“I was a boy myself once,” the big prisoner said.

“Shut your goddam mouth,” the guard said.

“That’s right, Sergeant,” began the little prisoner.

“Shut your goddam mouth.” The little prisoner winked at me.

“Maybe we better go back to the other car,” my father said to me. “See you later,” he said to the two detectives.

“Sure. See you at lunch.” The other detective nodded. The little prisoner winked at us. He watched us go down the aisle. The other prisoner was looking out of the window. We walked back through the smoker to our seats in the other car.

“Well, Jimmy, what do you make of that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I,” said my father.

At lunch at Cadillac we were sitting at the counter before they came in and they sat apart at a table. It was a good lunch. We ate chicken pot pie and I drank a glass of milk and ate a piece of blueberry pie with ice cream. The lunch room was crowded. Looking out the open door you could see the train. I sat on my stool at the lunch counter and watched the four of them eating together. The two prisoners ate with their left hands and the detectives with their right hands. When the detectives wanted to cut up their meat they used the fork in their left hand and that pulled the prisoner’s right hand toward them. Both the hands that were fastened together were on the table. I watched the little prisoner eating and he, without seeming to do it purposefully, made it very uncomfortable for the sergeant. He would jerk without seeming to know it and he held his hand so the sergeant’s left hand was always being pulled. The other two ate as comfortably as they could. They were not as interesting to watch anyway.

“Why don’t you take them off while we eat?” the little man said to the sergeant. The sergeant did not say anything. He was reaching for his coffee and as he picked it up the little man jerked and he spilled it. Without looking toward the little man the sergeant jerked out with his arm and the steel cuffs yanked the little man’s wrist and the sergeant