The words ran crazily in his head: Mollie the Mutton is scratching her nose in the rain.

Then the words fell into a pattern: ``Mollie the Mutton is scratching her nose, Scratching her nose in the rain. Mollie the Mutton is scratching her nose in the rain.''

The pattern would not stop. It came again and again. He felt trapped in that pattern, in the repetition.

Suddenly he thought he might weep. ``What's the matter with me?'' he demanded out loud. He looked wildly around, at the now empty street, at the mud, at the rain. ``Oh, what's the matter with me?'' he demanded.

When he had stored his stock in the great oak chest, locked the two big hasps and secured the additional chain, tied the fly of the tent, and picked up the cash box, he moved up the darkening street. He would consign the cash box into the hands of Jed Hawksworth, then stand by while his employer checked the contents and the list of items sold. Then he --

Then what? He did not know. His mind closed on that prospect, as though fog had descended to blot out a valley.

Far off, in the dusk, he heard voices singing, muffled but strong. In one of the huts a group of men were huddled together, singing. He stopped. He strained to hear. He heard the words: ``Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee! Let the water and the blood From Thy riven side.''

He thought: I am a Jew from Bavaria.

He was standing there, he thought, in Virginia, in the thickening dusk, in a costly greatcoat that had belonged to another Jew. That other Jew, a young man too, had left that greatcoat behind, in a rich house, and marched away. He had crossed the river which now, beyond the woods yonder, was sliding darkly under the mist. He had plunged into the dark woods beyond. He had died there.