The Last Gentleman

sourwood and the three-fingered sassafras.
    â€œHow much money do you have?” she asked.
    He shrugged. “Somewhere around fifteen thousand—after I transact my business.” A thought cheered him up. “Not nearly enough to buy Cap’n Andy’s house, as good a bargain as it is.”
    â€œWill you take care of this for me?”
    The Esso map was open on the dash. Squarely across old Arkansas it fell, the check, or cheque it looked more like, machine-printed, certified, punched, computed, red-inked, hatched up rough as a cheese grater. The engineer nearly ran off the mountain. A little army of red Gothic noughts marched clean to Oklahoma, leaning into the wind. It looked familiar. Had he seen it before?
    â€œYou have seen it before. Remember?”
    â€œYes,” said the engineer. “What’s it for?”
    â€œMy dowry, crazy. Turn it over.”
    He pulled up at a G.E. model home—what’s wrong with one of these—they were much more cheerful than that buzzard’s roost up on the ridge, and read aloud the lavender script: “For deposit only, to the account of Williston Bibb Barrett.”
    â€œDo you know how I got the Bibb?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI got Jamie to peek in your wallet.”
    â€œWhat do you want me to do with it?”
    â€œKeep it. Hand me your wallet. I’ll put it in.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œIt’s really insurance.”
    â€œWhat kind of insurance?”
    â€œAgainst your running out on me. I know you wouldn’t steal a girl’s money. Would you?”
    â€œNo.”
    Already the carnivorous ivy was stealing down the mountainside. Quickly he put the G.M.C. in gear and sent the Trav-L-Aire roaring down the gloomy Piedmont
    â€œDo we go anywhere near school?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCould we stop and pick up my books?”
    â€œAll right. But why do you want your books?”
    â€œWe have a test in Comp Lit Wednesday.”
    â€œWednesday.”
    A half hour later, as dusk fell in a particularly gloomy wood, she clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh my Lord, we forgot about the game.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œTurn on the radio and see if you can get the score.”
    â€œAll right.”
    15 .
    Traffic was heavy in both directions and it was night before they reached the campus. The engineer stopped the Trav-L-Aire under a street light and cocked an ear.
    Something was wrong. Whether there was something wrong with the town or inside his own head, he could not say. But beyond a doubt, a queer greenish light flickered over the treetops. There were flat popping noises, unchambered, not like a shotgun but two-syllabled, ba- rop, ba -rop. In the next block an old car stopped and three men got out carrying shotguns and dove straight into the woods. They were not students. They looked like the men who hang around service stations in south Jackson.
    â€œI wonder if Tennessee won,” said Kitty. “Why are you stopping here?”
    â€œI think I’ll leave the camper here.” His old British wariness woke in him. He backed the camper onto a vacant lot behind a billboard.
    They separated at a fork in the campus walk, she bound for the Chi Omega house to fetch her books, he for his Theory of Large Numbers. “I’ll meet you here in ten minutes,” he told her uneasily.
    Dark figures raced past him on the paths. From somewhere close at hand came the sound of running feet, the heavy direful sound of a grown man running as hard as he can. A girl, a total stranger, appeared from nowhere and taking him by the coat sleeves thrust her face within inches of his. “Hi,” he said.
    â€œHe’s here,” she sobbed and jerked at his clothes like a ten-year-old. “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” she sobbed, jerking now at his lapels.
    â€œWho?” he asked, looking around.
    Searching his face and not finding what she wanted, she actually cast him from her and flew on her way.
    â€œWho?” he asked again, but she was gone. Coming to a lamp, he took out his plastic Gulf Oil calendar card and held it up to see what day of the month it was. He had forgotten and it made him feel uneasy.
    At the Confederate monument a group of students ran toward him in ragged single file. Then he saw why. They were carrying a long flagstaff. The flag was furled—he could not tell whether it was United States or Confederate. The youth in front was a