Out on the street the Inger looked at the stretch of asphalt pavement, the even fronts of the houses, the lights set a certain space apart, and he looked in the faces of men and women walking home with parcels. All these were so methodical and quiet that they made it seem impossible that he had just wanted to kill a man. All this scene was arranged and ordered, and what he had done had been—disorderly. He thought of the word as he had often seen it in the Inch _Weekly_: “arrested for being disorderly.” That was it, of course; and here the buildings were as they had been appointed, and the lights were set a certain space apart.... But he had not killed the man! And he was doing the way all the others were doing. He and his father were walking here, like all the others. This seemed wonderful. He looked at the lights and at the buildings as if he understood them. He noticed that his father was trembling. At a crosswalk he caught gropingly at his son’s arm. “We’ll have some victuals,” said the Inger, and led him to a little restaurant. His father followed obediently; but the food they set before him remained untouched. He sat there weakly, drank cold water, and assented eagerly when the Inger suggested that he go to bed. In the Inger’s little room he sank on the edge of the single bed, and the Inger was unspeakably shocked to see him cry. “What, Dad?” he could only say over uncomfortably. “What?” “I wish’t I could ’a’ settled with him,” his father said. “I wish’t I could ’a’ settled _one_ varmint before I die.” “What’d you want to muss with him for?” he inquired impatiently. “Because I ain’t never done much of anything that was much of anything,” the old man said. He straightened himself. “An’ I could of did this!” he added with abrupt energy. The Inger studied him intently. The great rugged bones of the older man and the big, thick, ineffectual hands suddenly spoke to him, out of the deep of this undirected life. They had wanted to act—those bones and those hands! “He wasn’t worth the powder,” the Inger said, but he was not thinking of what he said. He was staring at the tears rolling down the old man’s face. “Get to bed—get to bed, Dad,” he kept insisting. But first his father would tell him, in fragments, disjointed, pieced together by the Inger’s guesses, how his presence there had come about.