No one touched him. Their minds and imaginations were arrested by the gigantic proportions of the act. The unfathomable presumption of the act. As throwing murder in their faces to the tune of a jig in a barber-shop. It is a fact that none of them so much as thought of touching him. No less than all of them, together with all other men, shorn of their imaginations--that is to say, the expressionless and imperturbable creature of the Law--would be sufficient to touch that ghastly man. On the other hand, they could not leave him alone. They could not go away. They watched. They saw the damp, lather-soaked beard of that victimized stranger falling away, stroke by stroke of the flashing, heavy razor. The dead denuded by the blind! It was seen that Boaz was about to speak. It was something important he was about to utter; something, one would say, fatal. The words would not come all at once. They swelled his cheeks out. His razor was arrested. Lifting his face, he encircled the watchers with a gaze at once of imploration and of command. As if he could see them. As if he could read his answer in the expressions of their faces. "Tell me one thing now. Is it that _cachorra_?" For the first time those men in the room made sounds. They shuffled their feet. It was as if an uncontrollable impulse to ejaculation, laughter, derision, forbidden by the presence of death, had gone down into their boot-soles. "Manuel?" one of them said. "You mean _Manuel_?" Boaz laid the razor down on the floor beside its work. He got up from his knees slowly, as if his joints hurt. He sat down in his chair, rested his hands on the arms, and once more encircled the company with his sightless gaze. "Not Manuel. Manuel was a good boy. But tell me now, is it that _cachorra_?" Here was something out of their calculations; something for them, mentally, to chew on. Mystification is a good thing sometimes. It gives the brain a fillip, stirs memory, puts the gears of imagination in mesh. One man, an old, tobacco-chewing fellow, began to stare harder at the face on the floor. Something moved in his intellect. "No, but look here now, by God----" He had even stopped chewing. But he was forestalled by another. "Say now, if it don't look like that fellow Wood, himself. The bank fellow--that was burned--remember? Himself." "That _cachorra_ was not burned. Not that Wood. You darned fool!" Boaz spoke from his chair. They hardly knew his voice, emerging from its long silence; it was so didactic and arid.