The Changing Environment Organizations are now operating in a high.docx

The Changing Environment Organizations are now operating in
a highly competitive environment that can be characterized in
terms of increasing risk, limited ability to forecast, fluid
organizational and industry boundaries, new structures and
systems that permit and create change, and more diverse
customer demands and expectations. No organization is isolated
from the external environment, and there is continuous pressure
to adapt and change if they are to survive and grow. The
external environment includes everything outside the
organization, including the political, economic, social,
technological, regulatory, competitive, supplier, and customer
environments. The level and pace of change is significantly
greater than ever before, which has important implications for
organizations and how they are managed. Collectively, changes
in the environment create important consequences for the
development and management of products, markets, and
organizational capabilities. As external environments become
more complex, dynamic, and turbulent, it also means that there
are alternative opportunities. The rapid pace of change is
emerging from new markets, technologies, economic conditions,
demographic patterns, globalization, and the knowledge
economy. Organizations now need to be more innovative than
ever. While these changes eliminate some innovations and
entrepreneurial activities, they open up opportunities for others.
New markets mean new opportunities, and new technologies
create new competencies. Some organizations aim to protect
themselves against external threats and changing conditions.
Others embrace the potential opportunities that can be found as
a result of the threat. In today's environment, to sustain
competitive advantage, organizations need to recognize that
customer groupings are more differentiated and competition has
intensified. Change in one area such as technological
advancement and development has resulted in changes in other
areas such as more intensified competition as customers have

access to a much broader and diverse group of companies to buy
goods. For example, originally Google was a search engine;
currently it has the world's leading mobile platform in Android
and provides a strong alternative to Facebook in Google+.
Amazon originally sold books; now it sells services competing
with Apple iOS devices and Android. Apple originally sold
computers and MP3 players; now it sells phones and tablets,
dominating the market with the iPhone and the launch of the
iPhone 4S, which introduced a new approach to search
technology with Siri, its voice-activated search and task-
completion service built in. Apple's iPhone 4S Siri voice search
has intensified competition for Google. More recently, Apple
launched the iPhone 5 and iPad mini, which emphasizes the
significant pace of innovation necessary in the technology
industry to stay competitive. Facebook provided the most
disruptive web platform since Google's search engine. With
1.06 billion active users and growing, Facebook is rapidly
extending its tendrils into the web at large; this competes with
Android, Apple, and Google. To be successful, organizations
must continually reduce costs, improve quality, enhance
customer service, exceed customer expectations, and offer
products and services that are innovative and have what
customers value. These improvements are the very basic
requirement to retain some market share. Being competitive is
very different than achieving sustainable competitive advantage.
Achieving competitive advantage needs to be a core part of
strategy and instilled within the management philosophy so that
the organization will continually be innovative and
entrepreneurial and this strategy is the foundation of the
organizational culture. Competitive advantage requires
organizations to do the following: Adapt to external
environmental changesBe customer driven and focusedHave
flexible strategies and processes that can meet the needs and
diverse requirements of customers, suppliers, distributors,
regulators, and stakeholdersBe able to quickly respond to the
fast pace of change in the environment by recognizing and

taking advantage of opportunities that emergeProactively meet
and exceed the needs of customers in light of existing
competitionActively engage in R & D to continuously prioritize
the development of new products, services, processes, markets,
and technologies Organizations that are more adaptable,
focused, flexible, responsive, proactive, and engaged in R & D
are in a more favorable position not only to adapt to the
complex, dynamic external environment but to generate change
within that environment and sustain competiveness. Innovation
and entrepreneurship are the key sources of sustainable
competitive advantage as evident from leading entrepreneurs
such as Richard Branson (Virgin Group), Bill Gates (Microsoft),
Pierre Omidyar (eBay), and Mark Zuckerberg (Facebook).
Continuous innovation, entrepreneurial activity, and an ability
to bring about positive changes are the key success factors
(KSFs) that define corporate performance in the dynamic,
complex, knowledge economy of the 21st century. The Role of
Innovation, Entrepreneurship, and Strategy in Achieving
Sustainable Competitive Advantage Innovative and
entrepreneurial organizations develop a strategy that can
effectively lead to the commercialization of the new and novel
products or services in the marketplace with a sustainable
competitive advantage. Strategic management and
entrepreneurship are dynamic processes that are intended to
enhance organizational performance (Kuratko & Audretsch,
2009). Strategic management focuses on how competitive
positioning can create advantages for organizations that, in turn,
enhance performance (Porter, 1980, 1996) and achieve sustained
competitive advantage. Strategic planning requires top
management to focus beyond the current external environment
and envisage the organization's market position in the short,
medium, and long term. It necessitates the ability to evaluate
the resources and core competencies in terms of how they can
be utilized to create new sources of value. Innovation and
entrepreneurship are the key to successfully developing
competitive advantages. The challenge is to develop innovation

and entrepreneurship as a core competence of the organization.
In a global competitive economy, the most successful strategies
are those that are integrated with innovative and entrepreneurial
activities that offer superior value and create wealth. Strategy
and strategic management define the direction of the
organization and how well it is achieved. Management needs to
develop a strategy that focuses on the best ways for the
organization to create and sustain a competitive advantage
while simultaneously identifying and developing new
opportunities. Innovation and entrepreneurship are focused on
searching for new opportunities that will create value for the
organization, customers, and stakeholders. Strategy is focused
on sustaining competitive advantage and achieving above-
average returns. Simultaneously embracing entrepreneurial
philosophies, an entrepreneurial climate, and entrepreneurial
strategic behaviors increases the likelihood an organization will
identify and use its unique capabilities as a pathway to
increasing its performance (Ireland, Covin, & Kuratko, 2009).
Therefore, the integration of innovation and entrepreneurship
for opportunity identification and development and a strategy
for sustaining competitive advantage are necessary for value
and wealth creation. Organizations that can develop competitive
advantages today, while using innovation and entrepreneurship
to cultivate tomorrow's advantages, increase the chance of
survival and growth in the long term. Integration of Innovation
and Entrepreneurship with Strategy The integration of
innovation and entrepreneurship with strategy can be defined as
a vision directed strategic analysis with a core focus on
innovative and entrepreneurial behaviors that continuously
develop the organization through the identification and
development of innovative and entrepreneurial opportunities
that result in value creation and sustained competitive
advantage. For innovation and entrepreneurship to be ingrained
into the very existence of the organization, it must be integrated
into the organizational strategy. Organizations like Apple, Dell,
and Southwest Airlines capture the essence of a strategy that is

unique, innovative, and entrepreneurial in defining and creating
market value. The integration of innovation and
entrepreneurship with strategy allows top management to
develop strategies that concentrate on (1) competitive
advantages that are a core part of strategic management and (2)
the identification and development of opportunities for which
future competitive advantages can be developed and sustained.
It is the simultaneous use of existing advantages and the
identification of future opportunities that sustains competitive
advantage and the ability to continuously create value and
wealth. The integration is beneficial to SMEs and large
corporations as it helps SMEs develop their strategies toward
competitive advantage and large corporations to become more
innovative and entrepreneurial. The model presented in Figure
4.1 identifies three core dimensions: (1) innovation and
entrepreneurial strategic analysis, (2) strategic choice for value
creation and competitiveness, and (3) strategic implementation
for wealth creation and sustained competitive advantage. The
first dimension specifies the key factors influencing the process
at different levels, including environmental factors,
organizational factors (behavior and climate), and customers
and stakeholders. The second dimension focuses on options and
choices available from the analysis, specifically focusing on the
utilization of resources and the entrepreneurial actions from the
first dimension that are used to develop current opportunities
while simultaneously exploring new opportunities that will
create value. These actions occur primarily at the organizational
level. Finally, the implementation of selected opportunities will
create advantages for the organization, customers and
stakeholders and society through value creation, knowledge,
opportunity, competitiveness, and societal developments.
The Changing Envi
ronment Organizations are now operating in a highly
competitive

environment that can be characterized in terms of increasing
risk, limited ability to forecast, fluid
systems that permit and create
change, and more diverse customer demands and expectations.
No organization is isolated from
the external environment, and there is continuous pressure to
adapt and change if they are to
survive and grow. The external environment includes everything
outsid
e the organization,
including the political, economic, social, technological,
regulatory, competitive, supplier, and
customer environments. The level and pace of change is
significantly greater than ever before,
which has important implications for organiz
ations and how they are managed. Collectively,
changes in the environment create important consequences for
the development and management
of products, markets, and organizational capabilities. As
external environments become more
complex, dynamic, and tur
bulent, it also means that there are alternative opportunities.
The rapid
pace of change is emerging from new markets, technologies,
economic conditions, demographic
patterns, globalization, and the knowledge economy.
Organizations now need to be more
inno
vative than ever. While these changes eliminate some
innovations and entrepreneurial
activities, they open up opportunities for others. New markets
mean new opportunities, and new
technologies create new competencies. Some organizations aim
to protect them
selves against

external threats and changing conditions. Others embrace the
potential opportunities that can be
found as a result of the threat. In today's environment, to
sustain competitive advantage,
organizations need to recognize that customer groupin
gs are more differentiated and competition
has intensified. Change in one area such as technological
advancement and development has
resulted in changes in other areas such as more intensified
competition as customers have access
to a much broader and dive
rse group of companies to buy goods. For example, originally
Google
was a search engine; currently it has the world's leading mobile
platform in Android and
provides a strong alternative to Facebook in Google+. Amazon
originally sold books; now it sells
se
rvices competing with Apple iOS devices and Android. Apple
originally sold computers and
MP3 players; now it sells phones and tablets, dominating the
market with the iPhone and the
launch of the iPhone 4S, which introduced a new approach to
search technolo
gy with Siri, its
voice
-
activated search and task
-
completion service built in. Apple's iPhone 4S Siri voice search
launched the iPhone 5 and iPad
mini, which emphasizes the significant pace of in
novation necessary in the technology industry
to stay competitive. Facebook provided the most disruptive web
platform since Google's search

engine. With 1.06 billion active users and growing, Facebook is
rapidly extending its tendrils
into the web at large
; this competes with Android, Apple, and Google. To be
successful,
organizations must continually reduce costs, improve quality,
enhance customer service, exceed
customer expectations, and offer products and services that are
innovative and have what
custo
mers value. These improvements are the very basic requirement
to retain some market
share. Being competitive is very different than achieving
sustainable competitive advantage.
strategy and instill
ed within the
management philosophy so that the organization will
continually be innovative and
organizational culture. Competitive
advantage requires organizations to do the following: Adapt to
ex
ternal environmental
changesBe customer driven and focusedHave flexible strategies
and processes that can meet the
needs and diverse requirements of customers, suppliers,
distributors, regulators, and
stakeholdersBe able to quickly respond to the fast pace
of change in the environment by
recognizing and taking advantage of opportunities that
emergeProactively meet and exceed the
The Changing Environment Organizations are now operating in
a highly competitive
environment that can be characterized in terms of increasing

risk, limited ability to forecast, fluid
systems that permit and create
change, and more diverse customer demands and expectations.
No organization is isolated from
the external environment, and there is continuous pressure to
adapt and change if they are to
survive and grow. The external environment includes everything
outside the organization,
including the political, economic, social, technological,
regulatory, competitive, supplier, and
customer environments. The level and pace of change is
significantly greater than ever before,
which has important implications for organizations and how
they are managed. Collectively,
changes in the environment create important consequences for
the development and management
of products, markets, and organizational capabilities. As
external environments become more
complex, dynamic, and turbulent, it also means that there are
alternative opportunities. The rapid
pace of change is emerging from new markets, technologies,
economic conditions, demographic
patterns, globalization, and the knowledge economy.
Organizations now need to be more
innovative than ever. While these changes eliminate some
innovations and entrepreneurial
activities, they open up opportunities for others. New markets
mean new opportunities, and new
technologies create new competencies. Some organizations aim
to protect themselves against
external threats and changing conditions. Others embrace the
potential opportunities that can be
found as a result of the threat. In today's environment, to
sustain competitive advantage,
organizations need to recognize that customer groupings are

more differentiated and competition
has intensified. Change in one area such as technological
advancement and development has
resulted in changes in other areas such as more intensified
competition as customers have access
to a much broader and diverse group of companies to buy goods.
For example, originally Google
was a search engine; currently it has the world's leading mobile
platform in Android and
provides a strong alternative to Facebook in Google+. Amazon
originally sold books; now it sells
services competing with Apple iOS devices and Android. Apple
originally sold computers and
MP3 players; now it sells phones and tablets, dominating the
market with the iPhone and the
launch of the iPhone 4S, which introduced a new approach to
search technology with Siri, its
voice-activated search and task-completion service built in.
Apple's iPhone 4S Siri voice search
launched the iPhone 5 and iPad
mini, which emphasizes the significant pace of innovation
necessary in the technology industry
to stay competitive. Facebook provided the most disruptive web
platform since Google's search
engine. With 1.06 billion active users and growing, Facebook is
rapidly extending its tendrils
into the web at large; this competes with Android, Apple, and
Google. To be successful,
organizations must continually reduce costs, improve quality,
enhance customer service, exceed
customer expectations, and offer products and services that are
innovative and have what
customers value. These improvements are the very basic
requirement to retain some market
share. Being competitive is very different than achieving

sustainable competitive advantage.
strategy and instilled within the
management philosophy so that the organization will
continually be innovative and
organizational culture. Competitive
advantage requires organizations to do the following: Adapt to
external environmental
changesBe customer driven and focusedHave flexible strategies
and processes that can meet the
needs and diverse requirements of customers, suppliers,
distributors, regulators, and
stakeholdersBe able to quickly respond to the fast pace of
change in the environment by
recognizing and taking advantage of opportunities that
emergeProactively meet and exceed the
Title: Lamb to the Slaughter
Short story, 1953
Author(s): Roald Dahl
British Children's writer ( 1916 - 1990 )
Source: The World's Best Short Stories: Anthology & Criticism.
Vol. 5: Mystery and Detection. The World's
Best Series Great Neck, NY: Roth Publishing, Inc., p58.
Document Type: Short story
Full Text: COPYRIGHT 1991 Roth Publishing, Inc.
Original Language: English
Text:

THE ROOM WAS WARM and clean, the curtains drawn, the
two table lamps alight -- hers and the one by the empty chair
opposite.
On the sideboard behind her, two tall glasses, soda water,
whiskey. Fresh ice cubes in the Thermos bucket. Mary Maloney
was waiting
for her husband to come home from work. Now and again she
would glance up at the clock, but without anxiety, merely to
please
herself with the thought that each minute gone by made it nearer
the time when he would come. There was a slow smiling air
about
her, and about everything she did. The drop o the head as she
bent over her sewing was curiously tranquil. Her skin -- for this
was her
sixth month with child -- had acquired a wonderful translucent
quality, the mouth was soft, and the eyes, with their new placid
look,
seemed larger, darker than before. When the clock said ten
minutes to five, she began to listen, and few moments later,
punctually as
always, she heard the tires on the gravel outside, and the car
door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key
turning in the
lock. She laid aside her sewing, stood up, and went forward to
kiss him as he came in. "Hullo darling," she said. "Hullo," he
answered.
She took his coat and hung it in the closet. Then she walked
over and made the drinks, a strongish one for him, a weak one
for herself,
and soon she was back again in her chair with the sewing, and
he in the other, opposite, holding the tall glass with both his
hands,
rocking it so the ice cubes tinkled against the side. For her, this
was always a blissful time of day. She knew he didn't want to

speak
much until the first drink was finished, and she, on her side,
was content to sit quietly, enjoying his company after the long
hours alone
in the house. She loved to luxuriate in the presence of this man,
and to feel -- almost as a sunbather feels the sun -- that warm
male
glow that came out of him to her when they were alone together.
She loved him for the way he sat loosely in a chair, for the way
he
came in a door, or moved slowly across the room with long
strides. She loved the intent, far look in his eyes when they
rested on her,
the funny shape of the mouth, and especially the way he
remained silent about his tiredness, sitting still with himself
until the whiskey
had taken some of it away, "Tired, darling?" "Yes," he said.
"I'm tired." And as he spoke, he did an unusual thing. He lifted
his glass
and drained it in one swallow although there was still half of it,
at least half of it left. She wasn't really watching him, but she
knew
what he bad done because she heard the ice cubes falling back
against the bottom of the empty glass when he lowered his arm.
He
paused a moment, leaning forward in the chair, then he got up
and went slowly over to fetch himself another. "I'll get it!" she
cried,
jumping up. "Sit down," he said. When he came back, she
noticed that the new drink was dark amber with the quantity of
whiskey in
it. "Darling, shall I get your slippers?" "No." She watched him
as he began to sip the dark yellow drink, and she could see little
oily
swirls in the liquid because it was so strong. "I think it's a
shame," she said, "that when a policeman gets to be as senior as

you, they
keep him walking about on his feet all day long." He didn't
answer, so she bent her head again and went on with her
sewing; but each
time he lifted the drink to his lips, she heard the ice cubes
clinking against the side of the glass. "Darling," she said.
"Would you like
me to get you some cheese? I haven't made any supper because
it's Thursday." "No," he said. "If you're too tired to eat out," she
went
on, "it's still not too late. There's plenty of meat and stuff in the
freezer, and you can have it right here and not even move out of
the
chair." Her eyes waited on him for an answer, a smile, a little
nod, but he made no sign. "Anyway," she went on, "I'll get you
some
cheese and crackers first." "I don't want it," he said. She moved
uneasily in her chair, the large eyes still watching his face. "But
you
must have supper. I can easily do it here. I'd like to do it. We
can have lamb chops. Or pork. Anything you want. Everything's
in the
freezer." "Forget it," he said. "But darling, you must eat! I'll fix
it anyway, and then you can have it or not, as you like." She
stood up
and placed her sewing on the table by the lamp. "Sit down," he
said. "Just for a minute, sit down." It wasn't till then that she
began to
get frightened. "Go on," he said. "Sit down." She lowered
herself back slowly into the chair, watching him all the time
with those
large, bewildered eyes. He had finished the second drink and
was staring down into the glass, frowning. "Listen," he said.
"I've got
something to tell you." "What is it, darling? What's the matter?"
He had now become absolutely motionless, and he kept his head

down so that the light from the lamp beside him fell across the
upper part of his face, leaving the chin and mouth in shadow.
She
noticed there was a little muscle moving near the comer of his
left eye. "This is going to be a bit of a shock to you, I'm afraid,"
he said.
"But I've thought about it a good deal and I've decided the only
thing to do is tell you right away. I hope you won't blame me
too
much." And he told her. It didn't take long, four or five minutes
at most, and she sat very still through it all, watching him with
a kind
of dazed horror as he went further and further away from her
with each word. "So there it is," he added. "And I know it's kind
of a bad
time to be telling you, but there simply wasn't any other way.
Of course I'll give you money and see you're looked after. But
there
needn't really be any fuss. I hope not anyway. It wouldn't be
very good for my job." Her first instinct was not to believe any
of it, to
reject it all. It occurred to her that perhaps he hadn't even
spoken, that she herself had imagined the whole thing. Maybe,
if she went
about her business and acted as though she hadn't been
listening, then later, when she sort of woke up again, she might
find none of it
had ever happened. I "I'll get the supper," she managed to
whisper, and this time he didn't stop her. When she walked
across the room
she couldn't feel her feet touching the floor. She couldn't feel
anything at all -- except a slight nausea and a desire to vomit.
Everything

was automatic now -- down the steps to the cellar, the light
switch, the deep freeze, the hand inside the cabinet taking hold
of the first
object it met. She lifted it out, and looked at it. It was wrapped
in paper, so she took off the paper and looked at it again. A leg
of lamb.
All right then, they would have lamb for supper. She carried it
upstairs, holding the thin bone-end of it with both her hands,
and as she
went through the living-room, she saw him standing over by the
window with his back to her, and she stopped. "For God's sake,"
he
said, hearing her, but not turning round. "Don't make supper for
me. I'm going out." At that point, Mary Maloney simply walked
up
behind him and without any pause she swung the big frozen leg
of lamb high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could
on the
back of his head. She might just as well have hit him with a
steel club. She stepped back a pace, waiting, and the funny
thing was that
he remained standing there for at least four or five seconds,
gently swaying. Then he crashed to the carpet. The violence of
the crash,
the noise, the small table overturning, helped bring her out of
the shock. She came out slowly, feeling cold and surprised, and
she
stood for a while blinking at the body, still holding the
ridiculous piece of meat tight with both hands. All right, she
told herself. So
I've killed him. It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind
became all of a sudden. She began thinking very fast. As the
wife of a
detective, she knew quite well what the penalty would be. That
was fine. It made no difference to her. In fact, it would be a
relief. On

the other hand, what about the child? What were the laws about
murderers with unborn children? Did they kill them both --
mother
and child? Or did they wait until the tenth month? What did
they do? Mary Maloney didn't know. And she certainly wasn't
prepared to
take a chance. She carried the meat into the kitchen, placed it in
a pan, turned the oven on high, and shoved it inside. Then she
washed
her hands and ran upstairs to the bedroom. She sat down before
the mirror, tidied her hair, touched up her lips and face. She
tried a
smile. It came out rather peculiar. She tried again. "Hullo Sam,"
she said brightly, aloud. The voice sounded peculiar too. "I
want some
potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of peas." That was
better. Both the smile and the voice were coming out better
now. She
rehearsed it several times more. Then she ran downstairs, took
her coat, went out the back door, down the garden, into the
street. It
wasn't six o'clock yet and the lights were still on in the grocery
shop. "Hullo Sam," she said brightly, smiling at the man behind
the
counter. "Why, good evening, Mrs. Maloney. How're you?" "I
want some potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of
peas." The
man turned and reached up behind him on the shelf for the peas.
"Patrick's decided he's tired and doesn't want to eat out
tonight," she
told him. "We usually go out Thursdays, you know, and now
he's caught me without any vegetables in the house." "Then how
about
meat, Mrs. Maloney?" "No, I've got meat, thanks. I got a nice
leg of lamb from the freezer." "Oh." "I don't much like cooking
it frozen,

Sam, but I'm taking a chance on it this time. You think it'll be
all right?" "Personally," the grocer said, "I don't believe it
makes any
difference. You want these Idaho potatoes?" "Oh yes, that'll be
fine. Two of those." "Anything else?" The grocer cocked his
head on
one side, looking at her pleasantly. "How about afterwards?
What you going to give him for afterwards?" "Well -- what
would you
suggest, Sam?" The man glanced around his shop. "How about a
nice big slice of cheesecake? I know he likes that." "Perfect,"
she
said. "He loves it." And when it was all wrapped and she had
paid, she put on her brightest smile and said, "Thank you, Sam.
Goodnight." "Goodnight, Mrs. Maloney. And thank you." And
now, she told herself as she hurried back, all she was doing
now, she
was returning home to her husband and he was waiting for his
supper; and she must cook it good, and make it as tasty as
possible
because the poor man was tired; and if, when she entered the
house, she happened to find anything unusual, or tragic, or
terrible, then
naturally it would be a shock and she'd become frantic with
grief and horror. Mind you, she wasn't expecting to find
anything. She was
just going home with the vegetables. Mrs. Patrick Maloney
going home with the vegetables on Thursday evening to cook
supper for
her husband. That's the way, she told herself. Do everything
right and natural. Keep things absolutely natural and there'll be
no need
for any acting at all. Therefore, when she entered the kitchen by
the back door, she was humming a little tune to herself and
smiling.
"Patrick!" she called. "How are you, darling?" She put the

parcel down on the table and went through into the living room;
and when
she saw him lying there on the floor with his legs doubled up
and one arm twisted back underneath his body, it really was
rather a
shock. All the old love and longing for him welled up inside
her, and she ran over to him, knelt down beside him, and began
to cry her
heart out. It was easy. No acting was necessary. A few minutes
later she got up and went to the phone. She knew the number of
the
police station, and when the man at the other end answered, she
cried to him, "Quick! Come quick! Patrick's dead!" "Who's
speaking?" "Mrs. Maloney. Mrs. Patrick Maloney." "You mean
Patrick Maloney's dead?" "I think so," she sobbed. "He's lying
on the
floor and I think he's dead. " "Be right over," the man said. The
car came very quickly, and when she opened the front door, two
policemen walked in. She knew them both -- she knew nearly all
t men at that precinct -- and she fell right into Jack Noonan's
arms,
weeping hysterically. He put her gently into a chair, then went
over join the other one, who was called O'Malley, kneeling by
the body.
"Is he dead?" she cried. "I'm afraid he is. What happened?"
Briefly, she told her story about going out to the grocer and
coming back to
find him on the floor. While she was talking, crying and talking,
Noonan discovered a small patch of congealed blood on the
dead
man's head. He showed it to O'Malley, who got up at once and
hurried to the phone. Soon, other men began to come into the
house.
First a doctor, then two detectives, one of whom she knew by
name. Later, a police photographer arrived and took pictures,
and a man

who knew about fingerprints. There was a great deal of
whispering and muttering beside the corpse, and the detectives
kept asking her
a lot of questions. But they always treated her kindly. She told
her story again, this time right from the beginning, when Patrick
had
come in, and she was sewing, and he was tired, so tired he
hadn't wanted to go out for supper. She told how she'd put the
meat in the
oven -- "it's there now, cooking" -- and how she'd slipped out to
the grocer for vegetables, and come back to find him lying on
the
floor. "Which grocer?" one of the detectives asked. She told
him, and he turned and whispered something to the other
detective, who
immediately went outside into the street. In fifteen minutes he
was back with a page of notes, and there was more whispering,
and
through her sobbing she heard a few of the whispered phrases-
"...acted quite normal ... very cheerful ... wanted to give him a
good
supper ... peas ... cheesecake ... impossible that she..." After a
while, the photographer and the doctor departed and, two other
men
came in and took the corpse away on a stretcher. Then the
fingerprint man went away. The two detectives remained, and so
did the two
policemen. They were exceptionally nice to her, and Jack
Noonan asked if she wouldn't rather go somewhere else, to her
sister's house
perhaps, or to his own wife, who would take care of her and put
her up for the night. No, she said. She didn't feel she could
move even

a yard at the moment. Would they mind awfully if she stayed
just where she was until she felt better? She didn't feel too good
at the
moment, she really didn't. Then hadn't she better lie down on
the bed? Jack Noonan asked. No, she said. She'd like to stay
right where
she was, in this chair. A little later perhaps, when she felt
better, she would move. So they left her there while they went
about their
business, searching the house. Occasionally one of the
detectives asked her another question. Sometimes Jack Noonan
spoke at her
gently as he passed by. Her husband, he told her, had been
killed by a blow on the back of the head administered with a
heavy blunt
instrument, almost certainly a large piece of metal. They were
looking for the weapon. The murderer may have taken it with
him, but
on the other hand he may've thrown it away or hidden it
somewhere on the premises. "It's the old story," he said. "Get
the weapon, and
you've got the man." Later, one of the detectives came up and
sat beside her. Did she know, he asked, of anything in the house
that
could've been used as the weapon? Would she mind having a
look around to see if anything was missing -- a very big
spanner, for
example, or a heavy metal vase. They didn't have any heavy
metal vases, she said. "Or a big spanner?" She didn't think they
had a big
spanner. But there might be some things like that in the garage.
The search went on. She knew that there were other policemen
in the
garden all around the house. She could hear their footsteps on
the gravel outside, and sometimes she saw the flash of a torch
through a

chink in the curtains, It began to get late, nearly nine she
noticed by the clock on the mantle. The four men searching the
rooms
seemed to be growing weary, a trifle exasperated. I "Jack," she
said, the next time Sergeant Noonan went by. "Would you mind
giving
me a drink?" "Sure I'll give you a drink. You mean this
whiskey?" "Yes please. But just a small one. It might make me
feel better." He
banded her the glass. "Why don't you have one yourself," she
said, "You must be awfully tired. Please do. You've been very
good to
me." "Well," he answered. "It's not strictly allowed, but I might
take just a drop to keep me going." One by one the others came
in and
were persuaded to take a little nip of whiskey. They stood
around rather awkwardly with the drinks in their hands,
uncomfortable in
her presence, trying to say consoling things to her. Sergeant
Noonan wandered into the kitchen, came out quickly and said,
"Look,
Mrs. Maloney. You know that oven of yours is still on, and the
meat still inside." "Oh dear me!" she cried. "So it is!" "I better
turn it
off for you, hadn't I?" "Will you do that, Jack? Thank you so
much." When the sergeant returned the second time, she looked
at him
with her large, dark, tearful eyes. "Jack Noonan," she said.
"Yes?" "Would you do me a small favor -- you and these
others?" "We can
try, Mrs. Maloney." "Well," she said. "Here you all are, and
good friends of dear Patrick's too, and helping to catch the man
who killed
him. You must be terribly hungry by now because it's long past
your suppertime, and I know Patrick would never forgive me,
God

bless his soul, if I allowed you to remain in his house without
offering you decent hospitality. Why don't you eat up that lamb
that's in
the oven? It'll be cooked just right by now." "Wouldn't dream of
it," Sergeant Noonan said. "Please," she begged. "Please eat it.
Personally I couldn't touch a thing, certainly not what's been in
the house when he was here. But it's all right for you. It'd be a
favor to
me if you'd eat it up. Then you can go on with your work again
afterwards." There was a good deal of hesitating among the four
policemen, but they were clearly hungry, and in the end they
were persuaded to go into the kitchen and help themselves. The
woman
stayed where she was, listening to them through the open door,
and she could hear them speaking among themselves, their
voices thick
and sloppy because their mouths were full of meat. "Have some
more, Charlie?" "No. Better not finish it." "She wants us to
finish it.
She said so. Be doing her a favor." "Okay then. Give me some
more." "That's a hell of a big club the guy must've used to hit
poor
Patrick," one of them was saying. "The doc says his skull was
smashed all to pieces just like from a sledgehammer." "That's
why it
ought to be easy to find." "Exactly what I say." "Whoever done
it, they're not going to be carrying a thing like that around with
them
longer than they need." One of them belched. "Personally, I
think it's right here on the premises." "Probably right under our
very
noses. What you think, Jack?" And in the other room, Mary
Maloney began to giggle. Copyright (c) 1953 by Roald Dahl.
Reprinted
from Someone Like You by Roald Dahl. Used by permission of
David Higham Associates.

RELATED INFORMATION
Biography:
Roald Dahl
Explanation of:
"Lamb to the Slaughter" by Roald Dahl
Source Citation (MLA 7th Edition)
Dahl, Roald. "Lamb to the Slaughter." The World's Best Short
Stories: Anthology & Criticism. Vol. 5: Mystery and Detection.
Great
Neck, NY: Roth Publishing, Inc., 1991. 58. The World's Best
Series. LitFinder. Web. 6 Dec. 2013.
Document URL
http://go.galegroup.com.db03.linccweb.org/ps/i.do?id=GALE%7
CLTF0000153117WK&v=2.1&u=lincclin_bwcc&it=r&p=LITF&
sw=w&asid=97f9ff55be9d712ecec63f736385c26a
Gale Document Number: GALE|LTF0000153117WK
Title: A Good Man is Hard to Find
Short story, 1955
Author(s): Flannery O'Connor
American Writer ( 1925 - 1964 )

Other Names Used: O'Connor, Mary Flannery;
Source: The World's Best Short Stories: Anthology & Criticism.
Vol. 3: Famous Stories. The World's Best
Series Great Neck, NY: Roth Publishing, Inc., p34.
Full Text: COPYRIGHT 1990 Roth Publishing, Inc.
Text:
THE GRANDMOTHER didn't want to go to Florida. She wanted
to visit some of her connections in east Tennessee and she was
seizing at every chance to change Bailey's mind. Bailey was the
son she lived with, her only boy. He was sitting on the edge of
his
chair at the table, bent over the orange sports section of the
Journal. "Now look here, Bailey," she said, "see here, read
this," and she
stood with one hand on her thin hip and the other rattling the
newspaper at his bald head. "Here this fellow that calls himself
The
Misfit is aloose from the Federal Pen and headed toward Florida
and you read here what it says he did to these people. Just you
read it.
I wouldn't take my children in any direction with a criminal like
that aloose in it. I couldn't answer to my conscience if I did."
Bailey didn't look up from his reading so she wheeled around
then and faced the children's mother, a young woman in slacks,

whose
face was as broad and innocent as a cabbage and was tied
around with a green head-kerchief that had two points on the
top like
rabbit's ears. She was sitting on the sofa, feeding the baby his
apricots out of a jar. "The children have been to Florida before,"
the old
lady said. "You all ought to take them somewhere else for a
change so they would see different parts of the world and be
broad. They
never have been to east Tennessee."
The children's mother didn't seem to hear her but the eight-year-
old boy, John Wesley, a stocky child with glasses, said, "If you
don't
want to go to Florida, why dontcha stay at home?" He and the
little girl, June Star, were reading the funny papers on the floor.
"She wouldn't stay at home to be queen for a day," June Star
said without raising her yellow head.
"Yes and what would you do if this fellow, The Misfit, caught
you?" the grandmother asked.
"I'd smack his face," John Wesley said.
"She wouldn't stay at home for a million bucks," June Star said.
"Afraid she'd miss something. She has to go everywhere we go."
"All right, Miss," the grandmother said. "Just remember that the
next time you want me to curl your hair."
June Star said her hair was naturally curly.
The next morning the grandmother was the first one in the car,
ready to go. She had her big black valise that looked like the

head of a
hippopotamus in one corner, and underneath it she was hiding a
basket with Pitty Sing, the cat, in it. She didn't intend for the
cat to be
left alone in the house for three days because he would miss her
too much and she was afraid he might brush against one of the
gas
burners and accidentally asphyxiate himself. Her son, Bailey,
didn't like to arrive at a motel with a cat.
She sat in the middle of the back seat with John Wesley and
June Star on either side of her. Bailey and the children's mother
and the
baby sat in front and they left Atlanta at eight forty-five with
the mileage on the car at 55890. The grandmother wrote this
down
because she thought it would be interesting to say how many
miles they had been when they got back. It took them twenty
minutes to
reach the outskirts of the city.
The old lady settled herself comfortably, removing her white
cotton gloves and putting them up with her purse on the shelf in
front of
the back window. The children's mother still had on slacks and
still had her head tied up in a green kerchief, but the
grandmother had
on a navy blue straw sailor hat with a bunch of white violets on
the brim and a navy blue dress with a small white dot in the
print. Her
collars and cuffs were white organdy trimmed with lace and at
her neckline she had pinned a purple spray of cloth violets
containing a
sachet. In case of an accident, anyone seeing her dead on the
highway would know at once that she was a lady.

She said she thought it was going to be a good day for driving,
neither too hot nor too cold, and she cautioned Bailey that the
speed
limit was fifty-five miles an hour and that the patrolmen hid
themselves behind billboards and small clumps of trees and
sped out after
you before you had a chance to slow down. She pointed out
interesting details of the scenery: Stone Mountain; the blue
granite that in
some places came up to both sides of the highway; the brilliant
red clay banks slightly streaked with purple; and the various
crops that
made rows of green lace-work on the ground. The trees were
full of silver-white sunlight and the meanest of them sparkled.
The
children were reading comic magazines and their mother had
gone back to sleep.
"Let's go through Georgia fast so we won't have to look at it
much," John Wesley said.
"If I were a little boy," said the grandmother, "I wouldn't talk
about my native state that way. Tennessee has the mountains
and Georgia
has the hills."
"Tennessee is just a hillbilly dumping ground," John Wesley
said, "and Georgia is a lousy state too."
"You said it," June Star said.
"In my time," said the grandmother, folding her thin veined
fingers, "children were more respectful of their native states and
their

parents and everything else. People did right then. Oh look at
the cute little pickaninny!" she said and pointed to a Negro
child
standing in the door of a shack. "Wouldn't that make a picture,
now?" she asked and they all turned and looked at the little
Negro out
of the back window. He waved.
"He didn't have any britches on," June Star said.
"He probably didn't have any," the grandmother explained.
"Little niggers in the country don't have things like we do. If I
could paint,
I'd paint that picture," she said.
The children exchanged comic books.
The grandmother offered to hold the baby and the children's
mother passed him over the front seat to her. She set him on her
knee and
bounced him and told him about the things they were passing.
She rolled her eyes and screwed up her mouth and stuck her
leathery
thin face into his smooth bland one. Occasionally he gave her a
faraway smile. They passed a large cotton field with five or six
graves
fenced in the middle of it, like a small island. "Look at the
graveyard!" the grandmother said, pointing it out. "That was the
old family
burying ground. That belonged to the plantation."
"Where's the plantation?" John Wesley asked.
"Gone With the Wind," said the grandmother. "Ha. Ha."
When the children finished all the comic books they had

brought, they opened the lunch and ate it. The grandmother ate
a peanut
butter sandwich and an olive and would not let the children
throw the box and the paper napkins out the window. When
there was
nothing else to do they played a game by choosing a cloud and
making the other two guess what shape it suggested. John
Wesley took
one the shape of a cow and June Star guessed a cow and John
Wesley said, no, an automobile, and June Star said he didn't
play fair,
and they began to slap each other over the grandmother.
The grandmother said she would tell them a story if they would
keep quiet. When she told a story, she rolled her eyes and
waved her
head and was very dramatic. She said once when she was a
maiden lady she had been courted by a Mr. Edgar Atkins
Teagarden from
Jasper, Georgia. She said he was a very good-looking man and a
gentleman and that he brought her a watermelon every Saturday
afternoon with his initials cut in it, E. A. T. Well, one Saturday,
she said, Mr. Teagarden brought the watermelon and there was
nobody
at home and he left it on the front porch and returned in his
buggy to Jasper, but she never got the watermelon, she said,
because a
nigger boy ate it when he saw the initials, E. A. T.! This story
tickled John Wesley's funny bone and he giggled and giggled
but June
Star didn't think it was any good. She said she wouldn't marry a
man that just brought her a watermelon on Saturday. The
grandmother
said she would have done well to marry Mr. Teagarden because
he was a gentleman and had bought CocaCola stock when it first
came

out and that he had died only a few years ago, a very wealthy
man.
They stopped at The Tower for barbecued sandwiches. The
Tower was a part stucco and part wood filling station and dance
hall set in
a clearing outside of Timothy. A fat man named Red Sammy
Butts ran it and there were signs stuck here and there on the
building and
for miles up and down the highway saying, TRY RED
SAMMY'S FAMOUS BARBECUE. NONE LIKE FAMOUS RED
SAMMY'S!
RED SAM! THE FAT BOY WITH THE HAPPY LAUGH. A
VETERAN! RED SAMMY'S YOUR MAN!
Red Sammy was lying on the bare ground outside The Tower
with his head under a truck while a gray monkey about a foot
high,
chained to a small chinaberry tree, chattered nearby. The
monkey sprang back into the tree and got on the highest limb as
soon as he
saw the children jump out of the car and run toward him.
Inside, The Tower was a long dark room with a counter at one
end and tables at the other and dancing space in the middle.
They all sat
down at a board table next to the nickelodeon and Red Sam's
wife, a tall burnt-brown woman with hair and eyes lighter than
her skin,
came and took their order. The children's mother put a dime in
the machine and played "The Tennessee Waltz," and the
grandmother
said that tune always made her want to dance. She asked Bailey
if he would like to dance but he only glared at her. He didn't

have a
naturally sunny disposition like she did and trips made him
nervous. The grandmother's brown eyes were very bright. She
swayed her
head from side to side and pretended she was dancing in her
chair. June Star said play something she could tap to so the
children's
mother put in another dime and played a fast number and June
Star stepped out onto the dance floor and did her tap routine.
"Ain't she cute?" Red Sam's wife said, leaning over the counter.
"Would you like to come be my little girl?"
"No I certainly wouldn't," June Star said. "I wouldn't live in a
broken-down place like this for a million bucks!" and she ran
back to the
table.
"Ain't she cute?" the woman repeated, stretching her mouth
politely.
"Arn't you ashamed?" hissed the grandmother.
Red Sam came in and told his wife to quit lounging on the
counter and hurry up with these people's order. His khaki
trousers reached
just to his hip bones and his stomach hung over them like a sack
of meal swaying under his shirt. He came over and sat down at a
table
nearby and let out a combination sigh and yodel. "You can't
win," he said. "You can't win," and he wiped his sweating red
face off
with a gray handkerchief. "These days you don't know who to
trust," he said. "Ain't that the truth?"
"People are certainly not nice like they used to be," said the

grandmother.
"Two fellers come in here last week," Red Sammy said, "driving
a Chrysler. It was a old beat-up car but it was a good one and
these
boys looked all right to me. Said they worked at the mill and
you know let I them fellers charge the gas they bought? Now
why did I
do that?"
"Because you're a good man!" the grandmother said at once.
"Yes'm, I suppose so," Red Sam said as if he were struck with
this answer.
His wife brought the orders, carrying the five plates all at once
without a tray, two in each hand and one balanced on her arm.
"It isn't a
soul in this green world of God's that you can trust," she said.
"And I don't count nobody out of that, not nobody," she
repeated,
looking at Red Sammy.
"Did you read about that criminal, The Misfit, that's escaped?"
asked the grandmother.
"I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he didn't attact this place right
here," said the woman. "If he hears about it being here, I
wouldn't be
none surprised to see him. If he hears it's two cent in the cash
register, I wouldn't be a tall surprised if he..."
"That'll do," Red Sam said. "Go bring these people their Co'-
Colas," and the woman went off to get the rest of the order.
"A good man is hard to find," Red Sammy said. "Everything is

getting terrible. I remember the day you could go off and leave
your
screen door unlatched. Not no more."
He and the grandmother discussed better times. The old lady
said that in her opinion Europe was entirely to blame for the
way things
were now. She said the way Europe acted you would think we
were made of money and Red Sam said it was no use talking
about it,
she was exactly right. The children ran outside into the white
sunlight and looked at the monkey in the lacy chinaberry tree.
He was
busy catching fleas on himself and biting each one carefully
between his teeth as if it were a delicacy.
They drove off again into the hot afternoon. The grandmother
took cat naps and woke up every few minutes with her own
snoring.
Outside of Toombsboro she woke up and recalled an old
plantation that she had visited in this neighborhood once when
she was a
young lady. She said the house had six white columns across the
front and that there was an avenue of oaks leading up to it and
two
little wooden trellis arbors on either side in front where you sat
down with your suitor after a stroll in the garden. She recalled
exactly
which road to turn off to get to it. She knew that Bailey would
not be willing to lose any time looking at an old house, but the
more she
talked about it, the more she wanted to see it once again and
find out if the little twin arbors were still standing. "There was
a secret
panel in this house," she said craftily, not telling the truth but
wishing that she were, "and the story went that all the family

silver was
hidden in it when Sherman came through but it was never found
..."
"Hey!" John Wesley said. "Let's go see it! We'll find it! We'll
poke all the woodwork and find it! Who lives there? Where do
you turn
off at? Hey Pop, can't we turn off there?"
"We never have seen a house with a secret panel!" June Star
shrieked. "Let's go to the house with the secret panel! Hey Pop,
can't we
go see the house with the secret panel!"
"It's not far from here, I know," the grandmother said. "It
wouldn't take over twenty minutes."
Bailey was looking straight ahead. His jaw was as rigid as a
horseshoe. "No," he said.
The children began to yell and scream that they wanted to see
the house with the secret panel. John Wesley kicked the back of
the
front seat and June Star hung over her mother's shoulder and
whined desperately into her ear that they never had any fun
even on their
vacation, that they could never do what THEY wanted to do.
The baby began to scream and John Wesley kicked the back of
the seat
so hard that his father could feel the blows in his kidney.
"All right!" he shouted and drew the car to a stop at the side of
the road. "Will you all shut up? Will you all just shut up for one
second? If you don't shut up, we won't go anywhere."

"It would be very educational for them," the grandmother
murmured.
"All right," Bailey said, "but get this: this is the only time we're
going to stop for anything like this. This is the one and only
time."
"The dirt road that you have to turn down is about a mile back,"
the grandmother directed. "I marked it when we passed."
"A dirt road," Bailey groaned.
After they had turned around and were headed toward the dirt
road, the grandmother recalled other points about the house, the
beautiful glass over the front doorway and the candle-lamp in
the hall. John Wesley said that the secret panel was probably in
the
fireplace.
"You can't go inside this house," Bailey said. "You don't know
who lives there."
"While you all talk to the people in front, I'll run around behind
and get in a window," John Wesley suggested.
"We'll all stay in the car," his mother said.
They turned onto the dirt road and the car raced roughly along
in a swirl of pink dust. The grandmother recalled the times
when there
were no paved roads and thirty miles was a day's journey. The
dirt road was hilly and there were sudden washes in it and sharp
curves
on dangerous embankments. All at once they would be on a hill,
looking down over the blue tops of trees for miles around, then

the
next minute, they would be in a red depression with the dust-
coated trees looking down on them.
"This place had better turn up in a minute," Bailey said, "or I'm
going to turn around."
The road looked as if no one had traveled on it in months.
"It's not much farther," the grandmother said and just as she
said it, a horrible thought came to her. The thought was so
embarrassing
that she turned red in the face and her eyes dilated and her feet
jumped up, upsetting her valise in the corner. The instant the
valise
moved, the newspaper top she had over the basket under it rose
with a snarl and Pitty Sing, the cat, sprang onto Bailey's
shoulder.
The children were thrown to the floor and their mother,
clutching the baby, was thrown out the door onto the ground;
the old lady was
thrown into the front seat. The car turned over once and landed
right-side-up in a gulch off the side of the road. Bailey
remained in the
driver's seat with the cat-gray-striped with a broad white face
and an orange nose-clinging to his neck like a caterpillar.
As soon as the children saw they could move their arms and
legs, they scrambled out of the car, shouting, "We've had an
ACCIDENT!" The grandmother was curled up under the
dashboard, hoping she was injured so that Bailey's wrath would
not come
down on her all at once. The horrible thought she had had
before the accident was that the house she had remembered so
vividly was

not in Georgia but in Tennessee.
Bailey removed the cat from his neck with both hands and flung
it out the window against the side of a pine tree. Then he got
out of
the car and started looking for the children's mother. She was
sitting against the side of the red gutted ditch, holding the
screaming
baby, but she only had a cut down her face and a broken
shoulder. "We've had an ACCIDENT!" the children screamed in
a frenzy of
delight.
"But nobody's killed," June Star said with disappointment as the
grandmother limped out of the car, her hat still pinned to her
head but
the broken front brim standing up at a jaunty angle and the
violet spray hanging off the side. They all sat down in the ditch,
except the
children, to recover from the shock. They were all shaking.
"Maybe a car will come along," said the children's mother
hoarsely.
"I believe I have injured an organ," said the grandmother,
pressing her side, but no one answered her. Bailey's teeth were
clattering. He
had on a yellow sport shirt with bright blue parrots designed in
it and his face was as yellow as the shirt. The grandmother
decided that
she would not mention that the house was in Tennessee.
The road was about ten feet above and they could see only the
tops of the trees on the other side of it. Behind the ditch they

were
sitting in there were more woods, tall and dark and deep. In a
few minutes they saw a car some distance away on top of a hill,
coming
slowly as if the occupants were watching them. The
grandmother stood up and waved both arms dramatically to
attract their attention.
The car continued to come on slowly, disappeared around a
bend and appeared again, moving even slower, on top of the hill
they had
gone over. It was a big black battered hearse-like automobile.
There were three men in it.
It came to a stop just over them and for some minutes, the
driver looked down with a steady expressionless gaze to where
they were
sitting, and didn't speak. Then he turned his head and muttered
something to the other two and they got out. One was a fat boy
in black
trousers and a red sweat shirt with a silver stallion embossed on
the front of it. He moved around on the right side of them and
stood
staring, his mouth partly open in a kind of loose grin. The other
had on khaki pants and a blue striped coat and a gray hat pulled
down
very low, hiding most of his face. He came around slowly on the
left side. Neither spoke.
The driver got out of the car and stood by the side of it, looking
down at them. He was an older man than the other two. His hair
was
just beginning to gray and he wore silver-rimmed spectacles
that gave him a scholarly look. He had a long creased face and
didn't have
on any shirt or undershirt. He had on blue jeans that were too
tight for him and was holding a black hat and a gun. The two

boys also
had guns.
"We've had an ACCIDENT!" the children screamed.
The grandmother had the peculiar feeling that the bespectacled
man was someone she knew. His face was as familiar to her as
if she
had known him all her life but she could not recall who he was.
He moved away from the car and began to come down the
embankment, placing his feet carefully so that he wouldn't slip.
He had on tan and white shoes and no socks, and his ankles
were red
and thin. "Good afternoon," he said. "I see you all had you a
little spill."
"We turned over twice!" said the grandmother.
"Oncet," he corrected. "We seen it happen. Try their car and see
will it run, Hiram," he said quietly to the boy with the gray hat.
"What you got that gun for?" John Wesley asked. "Whatcha
gonna do with that gun?"
"Lady," the man said to the children's mother, "would you mind
calling them children to sit down by you? Children make me
nervous.
I want all you all to sit down right together there where you're
at."
"What are you telling US what to do for?" June Star asked.
Behind them the line of woods gaped like a dark open mouth.
"Come here," said their mother.
"Look here now," Bailey began suddenly, "we're in a

predicament! We're in..."
The grandmother shrieked. She scrambled to her feet and stood
staring. "You're The Misfit!" she said. "I recognized you at
once!"
"Yes'm," the man said, smiling slightly as if he were pleased in
spite of himself to be known, "but it would have been better for
all of
you, lady, if you hadn't of reckernized me."
Bailey turned his head sharply and said something to his mother
that shocked even the children. The old lady began to cry and
The
Misfit reddened.
"Lady," he said, "don't you get upset. Sometimes a man says
things he don't mean. I don't reckon he meant to talk to you
thataway."
"You wouldn't shoot a lady, would you?" the grandmother said
and removed a clean handkerchief from her cuff and began to
slap at
her eyes with it.
The Misfit pointed the toe of his shoe into the ground and made
a little hole and then covered it up again. "I would hate to have
to," he
said.
"Listen," the grandmother almost screamed, "I know you're a
good man. You don't look a bit like you have common blood. I
know you
must come from nice people!"

"Yes, ma'm," he said, "finest people in the world." When he
smiled he showed a row of strong white teeth. "God never made
a finer
woman than my mother and my daddy's heart was pure gold," he
said. The boy with the red sweat shirt had come around behind
them
and was standing with his gun at his hip. The Misfit squatted
down on the ground. "Watch them children, Bobby Lee," he
said. "You
know they make me nervous." He looked at the six of them
huddled together in front of him and he seemed to be
embarrassed as if he
couldn't think of anything to say. "Ain't a cloud in the sky," he
remarked, looking up at it. "Don't see no sun but don't see no
cloud
neither."
"Yes, it's a beautiful day," said the grandmother. "Listen," she
said, "you shouldn't call yourself The Misfit because I know
you're a
good man at heart. I can just look at you and tell."
"Hush!" Bailey yelled. "Hush! Everybody shut up and let me
handle this!" He was squatting in the position of a runner about
to sprint
forward but he didn't move.
"I pre-chate that, lady," The Misfit said and drew a little circle
in the ground with the butt of his gun.
"It'll take a half a hour to fix this here car," Hiram called,
looking over the raised hood of it.
"Well, first you and Bobby Lee get him and that little boy to
step over yonder with you," The Misfit said, pointing to Bailey

and John
Wesley. "The boys want to ast you something," he said to
Bailey. "Would you mind stepping back in them woods there
with them?"
"Listen," Bailey began, "we're in a terrible predicament!
Nobody realizes what this is," and his voice cracked. His eyes
were as blue
and intense as the parrots in his shirt and he remained perfectly
still.
The grandmother reached up to adjust her hat brim as if she
were going to the woods with him but it came off in her hand.
She stood
staring at it and after a second she let it fall on the ground.
Hiram pulled Bailey up by the arm as if he were assisting an old
man. John
Wesley caught hold of his father's hand and Bobby Lee
followed. They went off toward the woods and just as they
reached the dark
edge, Bailey turned and supporting himself against a gray naked
pine trunk, he shouted, "I'll be back in a minute, Mamma, wait
on
me!"
"Come back this instant!" his mother shrilled but they all
disappeared into the woods.
"Bailey Boy!" the grandmother called in a tragic voice but she
found she was looking at The Misfit squatting on the ground in
front of
her. "I just know you're a good man," she said desperately.
"You're not a bit common!"
"Nome, I ain't a good man," The Misfit said after a second as if
he had considered her statement carefully, "but I ain't the worst

in the
world neither. My daddy said I was a different breed of dog
from my brothers and sisters. 'You know,' Daddy said, 'it's some
that can
live their whole life out without asking about it and it's others
has to know why it is, and this boy is one of the latters. He's
going to be
into everything!"' He put on his black hat and looked up
suddenly and then away deep into the woods as if he were
embarrassed again.
"I'm sorry I don't have on a shirt before you ladies," he said,
hunching his shoulders slightly. "We buried our clothes that we
had on
when we escaped and we're just making do until we can get
better. We borrowed these from some folks we met," he
explained.
"That's perfectly all right," the grandmother said. "Maybe
Bailey has an extra shirt in his suitcase."
"I'll look and see terrectly," The Misfit said.
"Where are they taking him?" the children's mother screamed.
"Daddy was a card himself," The Misfit said. "You couldn't put
anything over on him. He never got in trouble with the
Authorities
though. Just had the knack of handling them."
"You could be honest too if you'd only try," said the
grandmother. "Think how wonderful it would be to settle down
and live a
comfortable life and not have to think about somebody chasing
you all the time."
The Misfit kept scratching in the ground with the butt of his gun

as if he were thinking about it. "Yes'm, somebody is always
after
you," he murmured.
The grandmother noticed how thin his shoulder blades were just
behind his hat because she was standing up looking down on
him.
"Do you ever pray?" she asked.
He shook his head. All she saw was the black hat wiggle
between his shoulder blades. "Nome," he said.
There was a pistol shot from the woods, followed closely by
another. Then silence. The old lady's head jerked around. She
could hear
the wind move through the tree tops like a long satisfied insuck
of breath. "Bailey Boy!" she called.
"I was a gospel singer for a while," The Misfit said. "I been
most everything. Been in the arm service, both land and sea, at
home and
abroad, been twict married, been an undertaker, been with the
railroads, plowed Mother Earth, been in a tornado, seen a man
burnt
alive oncet," and he looked up at the children's mother and the
little girl who were sitting close together, their faces white and
their
eyes glassy; "I even seen a woman flogged," he said.
"Pray, pray," the grandmother began, "pray, pray..."
"I never was a bad boy that I remember of," The Misfit said in
an almost dreamy voice, "but somewheres along the line I done
some

thing wrong and got sent to the penitentiary. I was buried
alive," and he looked up and held her attention to him by a
steady stare.
"That's when you should have started to pray," she said. "What
did you do to get sent to the penitentiary that first time?"
"Turn to the right, it was a wall," The Misfit said, looking up
again at the cloudless sky. "Turn to the left, it was a wall. Look
up it was
a ceiling, look down it was a floor. I forget what I done, lady. I
set there and set there, trying to remember what it was I done
and I ain't
recalled it to this day. Oncet in a while, I would think it was
coming to me, but it never come."
"Maybe they put you in by mistake," the old lady said vaguely.
"Nome," he said. "It wasn't no mistake. They had the papers on
me."
"You must have stolen something," she said.
The Misfit sneered slightly. "Nobody had nothing I wanted," he
said. "It was a head-doctor at the penitentiary said what I had
done
was kill my daddy but I known that for a lie. My daddy died in
nineteen ought nineteen of the epidemic flu and I never had a
thing to
do with it. He was buried in the Mount Hopewell Baptist
churchyard and you can go there and see for yourself."
"If you would pray," the old lady said, "Jesus would help you."
"That's right," The Misfit said.

"Well then, why don't you pray?" she asked trembling with
delight suddenly.
"I don't want no hep," he said. "I'm doing all right by myself."
Bobby Lee and Hiram came ambling back from the woods.
Bobby Lee was dragging a yellow shirt with bright blue parrots
in it.
"Thow me that shirt, Bobby Lee," The Misfit said. The shirt
came flying at him and landed on his shoulder and he put it on.
The
grandmother couldn't name what the shirt reminded her of. "No,
lady," The Misfit said while he was buttoning it up, "I found out
the
crime don't matter. You can do one thing or you can do another,
kill a man or take a tire off his car, because sooner or later
you're
going to forget what it was you done and just be punished for
it."
The children's mother had begun to make heaving noises as if
she couldn't get her breath. "Lady," he asked, "would you and
that little
girl like to step off yonder with Bobby Lee and Hiram and join
your husband?"
"Yes, thank you," the mother said faintly. Her left arm dangled
helplessly and she was holding the baby, who had gone to sleep,
in the
other. "Hep that lady up, Hiram," The Misfit said as she
struggled to climb out of the ditch, "and Bobby Lee, you hold
onto that little
girl's hand."
"I don't want to hold hands with him," June Star said. "He

reminds me of a pig."
The fat boy blushed and laughed and caught her by the arm and
pulled her off into the woods after Hiram and her mother.
Alone with The Misfit, the grandmother found that she had lost
her voice. There was not a cloud in the sky nor any sun. There
was
nothing around her but woods. She wanted to tell him that he
must pray. She opened and closed her mouth several times
before
anything came out. Finally she found herself saying, "Jesus.
Jesus," meaning, Jesus will help you, but the way she was
saying it, it
sounded as if she might be cursing.
"Yes'm," The Misfit said as if he agreed. "Jesus thown
everything off balance. It was the same case with Him as with
me except He
hadn't committed any crime and they could prove I had
committed one because they had the papers on me. Of course,"
he said, "they
never shown me my papers. That's why I sign myself now. I said
long ago, you get you a signature and sign everything you do
and
keep a copy of it. Then you'll know what you done and you can
hold up the crime to the punishment and see do they match and
in the
end you'll have something to prove you ain't been treated right.
I call myself The Misfit," he said, "because I can't make what
all I
done wrong fit what all I gone through in punishment."
There was a piercing scream from the woods, followed closely

by a pistol report. "Does it seem right to you, lady, that one is
punished
a heap and another ain't punished at all?"
"Jesus!" the old lady cried. "You've got good blood! I know you
wouldn't shoot a lady! I know you come from nice people! Pray!
Jesus, you ought not to shoot a lady. I'll give you all the money
I've got!"
"Lady," The Misfit said, looking beyond her far into the woods,
"there never was a body that give the undertaker a tip."
There were two more pistol reports and the grandmother raised
her head like a parched old turkey hen crying for water and
called,
"Bailey Boy, Bailey Boy!" as if her heart would break.
"Jesus was the only One that ever raised the dead," The Misfit
continued, "and He shouldn't have done it. He thown everything
off
balance. If He did what He said, then it's nothing for you to do
but thow away everything and follow Him, and if He didn't,
then it's
nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the
best way you can -- by killing somebody or burning down his
house
or doing some other meanness to him. No pleasure but
meanness," he said and his voice had become almost a snarl.
"Maybe He didn't raise the dead," the old lady mumbled, not
knowing what she was saying and feeling so dizzy that she sank
down in
the ditch with her legs twisted under her.
"I wasn't there so I can't say He didn't," The Misfit said. "I
wisht I had of been there," he said, hitting the ground with his

fist. "It ain't
right I wasn't there because if I had of been there I would of
known. Listen lady," he said in a high voice, "if I had of been
there I
would of known and I wouldn't be like I am now." His voice
seemed about to crack and the grandmother's head cleared for
an instant.
She saw the man's face twisted close to her own as if he were
going to cry and she murmured, "Why you're one of my babies.
You're
one of my own children!" She reached out and touched him on
the shoulder. The Misfit sprang back as if a snake had bitten
him and
shot her three times through the chest. Then he put his gun
down on the ground and took off his glasses and began to clean
them.
Hiram and Bobby Lee returned from the woods and stood over
the ditch, looking down at the grandmother who half sat and
half lay in
a puddle of blood with her legs crossed under her like a child's
and her face smiling up at the cloudless sky.
Without his glasses, The Misfit's eyes were red-rimmed and
pale and defenseless-looking. "Take her off and thow her where
you
thown the others," he said, picking up the cat that was rubbing
itself against his leg.
"She was a talker, wasn't she?" Bobby Lee said, sliding down
the ditch with a yodel.
"She would of been a good woman," The Misfit said, "if it had
been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life."
"Some fun!" Bobby Lee said.

"Shut up, Bobby Lee," The Misfit said. "It's no real pleasure in
life."
RELATED INFORMATION
Biography:
Flannery O'Connor
Source Citation (MLA 7th Edition)
O'Connor, Flannery. "A Good Man is Hard to Find." The
World's Best Short Stories: Anthology & Criticism. Vol. 3:
Famous Stories.
Great Neck, NY: Roth Publishing, Inc., 1990. 34. The World's
Best Series. LitFinder. Web. 6 Dec. 2013.
Document URL
http://go.galegroup.com.db03.linccweb.org/ps/i.do?id=GALE%7
CLTF0000504203WK&v=2.1&u=lincclin_bwcc&it=r&p=LITF&
sw=w&asid=37a95c67c02d486822470df09d5264f6
Gale Document Number: GALE|LTF0000504203WK
Title: A Jury of Her Peers
Short story, 1917
Author(s): Susan Glaspell
American Writer ( 1882 ? - 1948 )
Other Names Used: Glaspell, Susan Keating;

Source: The Best Short Stories of 1917 and the Yearbook of the
American Short Story. Ed. Edward J. O'Brien.
Boston: Small, Maynard & Company, 1918. p256.
Full Text:
Text:
When Martha Hale opened the storm-door and got a cut of the
north wind, she ran back for her big woolen scarf. As she
hurriedly
wound that round her head her eye made a scandalized sweep of
her kitchen. It was no ordinary thing that called her away -- it
was
probably further from ordinary than anything that had ever
happened in Dickson County. But what her eye took in was that
her kitchen
was in no shape for leaving: her bread all ready for mixing, half
the flour sifted and half unsifted.
She hated to see things half done; but she had been at that when
the team from town stopped to get Mr. Hale, and then the
sheriff came
running in to say his wife wished Mrs. Hale would come too --
adding, with a grin, that he guessed she was getting scary and
wanted
another woman along. So she had dropped everything right
where it was.
"Martha!" now came her husband's impatient voice. "Don't keep

folks waiting out here in the cold."
She again opened the storm-door, and this time joined the three
men and the one woman waiting for her in the big two-seated
buggy.
After she had the robes tucked around her she took another look
at the woman who sat beside her on the back seat. She had met
Mrs.
Peters the year before at the county fair, and the thing she
remembered about her was that she didn't seem like a sheriff's
wife. She was
small and thin and didn't have a strong voice. Mrs. Gorman,
sheriff's wife before Gorman went out and Peters came in, had a
voice
that somehow seemed to be backing up the law with every word.
But if Mrs. Peters didn't look like a sheriff's wife, Peters made
it up
in looking like a sheriff. He was to a dot the kind of man who
could get himself elected sheriff -- a heavy man with a big
voice, who
was particularly genial with the law-abiding, as if to make it
plain that he knew the difference between criminals and non-
criminals.
And right there it came into Mrs. Hale's mind, with a stab, that
this man who was so pleasant and lively with all of them was
going to
the Wrights' now as a sheriff.
"The country's not very pleasant this time of year," Mrs. Peters
at last ventured, as if she felt they ought to be talking as well as
the
men.
Mrs. Hale scarcely finished her reply, for they had gone up a
little hill and could see the Wright place now, and seeing it did

not make
her feel like talking. It looked very lonesome this cold March
morning. It had always been a lonesome-looking place. It was
down in a
hollow, and the poplar trees around it were lonesome-looking
trees. The men were looking at it and talking about what had
happened.
The county attorney was bending to one side of the buggy, and
kept looking steadily at the place as they drew up to it.
"I'm glad you came with me," Mrs. Peters said nervously, as the
two women were about to follow the men in through the kitchen
door.
Even after she had her foot on the door-step, her hand on the
knob, Martha Hale had a moment of feeling she could not cross
that
threshold. And the reason it seemed she couldn't cross it now
was simply because she hadn't crossed it before. Time and time
again it
had been in her mind, "I ought to go over and see Minnie
Foster" -- she still thought of her as Minnie Foster, though for
twenty years
she had been Mrs. Wright. And then there was always
something to do and Minnie Foster would go from her mind. But
now she could
come.
The men went over to the stove. The women stood close
together by the door. Young Henderson, the county attorney,
turned around
and said, "Come up to the fire, ladies."
Mrs. Peters took a step forward, then stopped. "I'm not -- cold,"
she said.

And so the two women stood by the door, at first not even so
much as looking around the kitchen.
The men talked for a minute about what a good thing it was the
sheriff had sent his deputy out that morning to make a fire for
them,
and then Sheriff Peters stepped back from the stove, unbuttoned
his outer coat, and leaned his hands on the kitchen table in a
way that
seemed to mark the beginning of official business. "Now, Mr.
Hale," he said in a sort of semi-official voice, "before we move
things
about, you tell Mr. Henderson just what it was you saw when
you came here yesterday morning."
The county attorney was looking around the kitchen.
"By the way," he said, "has anything been moved?" He turned to
the sheriff. "Are things just as you left them yesterday?"
Peters looked from cupboard to sink; from that to a small worn
rocker a little to one side of the kitchen table.
"It's just the same."
"Somebody should have been left here yesterday," said the
county attorney.
"Oh -- yesterday," returned the sheriff, with a little gesture as
of yesterday having been more than he could bear to think of.
"When I
had to send Frank to Morris Center for that man who went crazy
-- let me tell you. I had my hands full yesterday. I knew you
could get

back from Omaha by today, George, and as long as I went over
everything here myself -- "
"Well, Mr. Hale," said the county attorney, in a way of letting
what was past and gone go, "tell just what happened when you
came
here yesterday morning."
Mrs. Hale, still leaning against the door, had that sinking
feeling of the mother whose child is about to speak a piece.
Lewis often
wandered along and got things mixed up in a story. She hoped
he would tell this straight and plain, and not say unnecessary
things that
would just make things harder for Minnie Foster. He didn't
begin at once, and she noticed that he looked queer -- as if
standing in that
kitchen and having to tell what he had seen there yesterday
morning made him almost sick.
"Yes, Mr. Hale?" the county attorney reminded.
"Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes," Mrs.
Hale's husband began.
Harry was Mrs. Hale's oldest boy. He wasn't with them now, for
the very good reason that those potatoes never got to town
yesterday
and he was taking them this morning, so he hadn't been home
when the sheriff stopped to say he wanted Mr. Hale to come
over to the
Wright place and tell the county attorney his story there, where
he could point it all out. With all Mrs. Hale's other emotions
came the
fear now that maybe Harry wasn't dressed warm enough -- they
hadn't any of them realized how that north wind did bite.

"We come along this road," Hale was going on, with a motion of
his hand to the road over which they had just come, "and as we
got in
sight of the house I says to Harry, 'I'm goin' to see if I can't get
John Wright to take a telephone.' You see," he explained to
Henderson,
"unless I can get somebody to go in with me they won't come
out this branch road except for a price I can't pay. I'd spoke to
Wright
about it once before; but he put me off, saying folks talked too
much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet -- guess you
know
about how much he talked himself. But I thought maybe if I
went to the house and talked about it before his wife, and said
all the
women-folks liked the telephones, and that in this lonesome
stretch of road it would be a good thing -- well, I said to Harry
that that
was what I was going to say -- though I said at the same time
that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made much
difference to John
-- "
Now there he was! -- saying things he didn't need to say. Mrs.
Hale tried to catch her husband's eye, but fortunately the county
attorney interrupted with:
"Let's talk about that a little later, Mr. Hale. I do want to talk
about that but, I'm anxious now to get along to just what
happened when
you got here."
When he began this time, it was very deliberately and carefully:
"I didn't see or hear anything. I knocked at the door. And still it

was all quiet inside. I knew they must be up -- it was past eight
o'clock. So I knocked again, louder, and I thought I heard
somebody say, 'Come in.' I wasn't sure -- I'm not sure yet. But I
opened the
door -- this door," jerking a hand toward the door by which the
two women stood. "and there, in that rocker" -- pointing to it --
"sat
Mrs. Wright."
Everyone in the kitchen looked at the rocker. It came into Mrs.
Hale's mind that that rocker didn't look in the least like Minnie
Foster
-- the Minnie Foster of twenty years before. It was a dingy red,
with wooden rungs up the back, and the middle rung was gone,
and the
chair sagged to one side.
"How did she -- look?" the county attorney was inquiring.
"Well," said Hale, "she looked -- queer."
"How do you mean -- queer?"
As he asked it he took out a note-book and pencil. Mrs. Hale did
not like the sight of that pencil. She kept her eye fixed on her
husband, as if to keep him from saying unnecessary things that
would go into that note-book and make trouble.
Hale did speak guardedly, as if the pencil had affected him too.
"Well, as if she didn't know what she was going to do next. And
kind of -- done up."
"How did she seem to feel about your coming?"

"Why, I don't think she minded -- one way or other. She didn't
pay much attention. I said, 'Ho' do, Mrs. Wright? It's cold, ain't
it?' And
she said. 'Is it?' -- and went on pleatin' at her apron.
"Well, I was surprised. She didn't ask me to come up to the
stove, or to sit down, but just set there, not even lookin' at me.
And so I
said: 'I want to see John.'
"And then she -- laughed. I guess you would call it a laugh.
"I thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said, a little
sharp, 'Can I see John?' 'No,' says she -- kind of dull like. 'Ain't
he home?'
says I. Then she looked at me. 'Yes,' says she, 'he's home.' 'Then
why can't I see him?' I asked her, out of patience with her now.
'Cause
he's dead' says she, just as quiet and dull -- and fell to pleatin'
her apron. 'Dead?' says, I, like you do when you can't take in
what
you've heard.
"She just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rockin'
back and forth.
"'Why -- where is he?' says I, not knowing what to say.
"She just pointed upstairs -- like this" -- pointing to the room
above.
"I got up, with the idea of going up there myself. By this time I
-- didn't know what to do. I walked from there to here; then I
says:
'Why, what did he die of?'

"'He died of a rope around his neck,' says she; and just went on
pleatin' at her apron."
Hale stopped speaking, and stood staring at the rocker, as if he
were still seeing the woman who had sat there the morning
before.
Nobody spoke; it was as if every one were seeing the woman
who had sat there the morning before.
"And what did you do then?" the county attorney at last broke
the silence.
"I went out and called Harry. I thought I might -- need help. I
got Harry in, and we went upstairs." His voice fell almost to a
whisper.
"There he was -- lying over the -- "
"I think I'd rather have you go into that upstairs," the county
attorney interrupted, "where you can point it all out. Just go on
now with
the rest of the story."
"Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked -- "
He stopped, his face twitching.
"But Harry, he went up to him, and he said. 'No, he's dead all
right, and we'd better not touch anything.' So we went
downstairs.
"She was still sitting that same way. 'Has anybody been
notified?' I asked. 'No, says she, unconcerned.
"'Who did this, Mrs. Wright?' said Harry. He said it
businesslike, and she stopped pleatin' at her apron. 'I don't

know,' she says. 'You
don't know?' says Harry. 'Weren't you sleepin' in the bed with
him?' 'Yes,' says she, 'but I was on the inside. 'Somebody
slipped a rope
round his neck and strangled him, and you didn't wake up?' says
Harry. 'I didn't wake up,' she said after him.
"We may have looked as if we didn't see how that could be, for
after a minute she said, 'I sleep sound.'
"Harry was going to ask her more questions, but I said maybe
that weren't our business; maybe we ought to let her tell her
story first to
the coroner or the sheriff. So Harry went fast as he could over
to High Road -- the Rivers' place, where there's a telephone."
"And what did she do when she knew you had gone for the
coroner?" The attorney got his pencil in his hand all ready for
writing.
"She moved from that chair to this one over here" -- Hale
pointed to a small chair in the corner -- "and just sat there with
her hands
held together and lookin down. I got a feeling that I ought to
make some conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John
wanted to
put in a telephone; and at that she started to laugh, and then she
stopped and looked at me -- scared."
At the sound of a moving pencil the man who was telling the
story looked up.
"I dunno -- maybe it wasn't scared," he hastened: "I wouldn't
like to say it was. Soon Harry got back, and then Dr. Lloyd

came, and
you, Mr. Peters, and so I guess that's all I know that you don't."
He said that last with relief, and moved a little, as if relaxing.
Everyone moved a little. The county attorney walked toward the
stair
door.
"I guess we'll go upstairs first -- then out to the barn and around
there."
He paused and looked around the kitchen.
"You're convinced there was nothing important here?" he asked
the sheriff. "Nothing that would -- point to any motive?"
The sheriff too looked all around, as if to re-convince himself.
"Nothing here but kitchen things," he said, with a little laugh
for the insignificance of kitchen things.
The county attorney was looking at the cupboard -- a peculiar,
ungainly structure, half closet and half cupboard, the upper part
of it
being built in the wall, and the lower part just the old-fashioned
kitchen cupboard. As if its queerness attracted him, he got a
chair and
opened the upper part and looked in. After a moment he drew
his hand away sticky.
"Here's a nice mess," he said resentfully.
The two women had drawn nearer, and now the sheriff's wife
spoke.
"Oh -- her fruit," she said, looking to Mrs. Hale for sympathetic

understanding. She turned back to the county attorney and
explained:
"She worried about that when it turned so cold last night. She
said the fire would go out and her jars might burst."
Mrs. Peters' husband broke into a laugh.
"Well, can you beat the women! Held for murder, and worrying
about her preserves!"
The young attorney set his lips.
"I guess before we're through with her she may have something
more serious than preserves to worry about."
"Oh, well," said Mrs. Hale's husband, with good-natured
superiority, "women are used to worrying over trifles."
The two women moved a little closer together. Neither of them
spoke. The county attorney seemed suddenly to remember his
manners
-- and think of his future.
"And yet," said he, with the gallantry of a young politician. "for
all their worries, what would we do without the ladies?"
The women did not speak, did not unbend. He went to the sink
and began washing his hands. He turned to wipe them on the
roller
towel -- whirled it for a cleaner place.
"Dirty towels! Not much of a housekeeper, would you say,
ladies?"
He kicked his foot against some dirty pans under the sink.

"There's a great deal of work to be done on a farm," said Mrs.
Hale stiffly.
"To be sure. And yet" -- with a little bow to her -- 'I know there
are some Dickson County farm-houses that do not have such
roller
towels." He gave it a pull to expose its full length again.
"Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men's hands aren't always
as clean as they might be.
"Ah, loyal to your sex, I see," he laughed. He stopped and gave
her a keen look, "But you and Mrs. Wright were neighbors. I
suppose
you were friends, too."
Martha Hale shook her head.
"I've seen little enough of her of late years. I've not been in this
house -- it's more than a year."
"And why was that? You didn't like her?"
"I liked her well enough," she replied with spirit. "Farmers'
wives have their hands full, Mr. Henderson. And then -- " She
looked
around the kitchen.
"Yes?" he encouraged.
"It never seemed a very cheerful place," said she, more to
herself than to him.
"No," he agreed; "I don't think anyone would call it cheerful. I

shouldn't say she had the home-making instinct."
"Well, I don't know as Wright had, either," she muttered.
"You mean they didn't get on very well?" he was quick to ask.
"No; I don't mean anything," she answered, with decision. As
she turned a little away from him, she added: "But I don't think
a place
would be any the cheerfuler for John Wright's bein' in it."
"I'd like to talk to you about that a little later, Mrs. Hale," he
said. "I'm anxious to get the lay of things upstairs now."
He moved toward the stair door, followed by the two men.
"I suppose anything Mrs. Peters does'll be all right?" the sheriff
inquired. "She was to take in some clothes for her, you know --
and a
few little things. We left in such a hurry yesterday."
The county attorney looked at the two women they were leaving
alone there among the kitchen things. "Yes -- Mrs. Peters," he
said,
his glance resting on the woman who was not Mrs. Peters, the
big farmer woman who stood behind the sheriff's wife. "Of
course Mrs.
Peters is one of us," he said, in a manner of entrusting
responsibility. "And keep your eye out, Mrs. Peters, for
anything that might be
of use. No telling; you women might come upon a clue to the
motive -- and that's the thing we need."
Mr. Hale rubbed his face after the fashion of a showman getting
ready for a pleasantry.

"But would the women know a clue if they did come upon it?"
he said; and, having delivered himself of this, he followed the
others
through the stair door.
The women stood motionless and silent, listening to the
footsteps, first upon the stairs, then in the room above them.
Then, as if releasing herself from something strange. Mrs. Hale
began to arrange the dirty pans under the sink, which the county
attorney's disdainful push of the foot had deranged.
"I'd hate to have men comin' into my kitchen," she said testily --
"snoopin' round and criticizin'."
"Of course it's no more than their duty," said the sheriff's wife,
in her manner of timid acquiescence.
"Duty's all right," replied Mrs. Hale bluffly; "but I guess that
deputy sheriff that come out to make the fire might have got a
little of
this on." She gave the roller towel a pull. 'Wish I'd thought of
that sooner! Seems mean to talk about her for not having things
slicked
up, when she had to come away in such a hurry."
She looked around the kitchen. Certainly it was not "slicked
up." Her eye was held by a bucket of sugar on a low shelf. The
cover was
off the wooden bucket, and beside it was a paper bag -- half
full.
Mrs. Hale moved toward it.
"She was putting this in there," she said to herself -- slowly.

She thought of the flour in her kitchen at home -- half sifted,
half not sifted. She had been interrupted, and had left things
half done.
What had interrupted Minnie Foster? Why had that work been
left half done? She made a move as if to finish it, -- unfinished
things
always bothered her, -- and then she glanced around and saw
that Mrs. Peters was watching her -- and she didn't want Mrs.
Peters to
get that feeling she had got of work begun and then -- for some
reason -- not finished.
"It's a shame about her fruit," she said, and walked toward the
cupboard that the county attorney had opened, and got on the
chair,
murmuring: "I wonder if it's all gone."
It was a sorry enough looking sight, but "Here's one that's all
right," she said at last. She held it toward the light. "This is
cherries, too."
She looked again. "I declare I believe that's the only one."
With a sigh, she got down from the chair, went to the sink, and
wiped off the bottle.
"She'll feel awful bad, after all her hard work in the hot
weather. I remember the afternoon I put up my cherries last
summer.
She set the bottle on the table, and, with another sigh, started to
sit down in the rocker. But she did not sit down. Something kept
her
from sitting down in that chair. She straightened -- stepped
back, and, half turned away, stood looking at it, seeing the

woman who had
sat there "pleatin' at her apron."
The thin voice of the sheriff's wife broke in upon her: "I must
be getting those things from the front-room closet." She opened
the door
into the other room, started in, stepped back. "You coming with
me, Mrs. Hale?" she asked nervously. "You -- you could help
me get
them."
They were soon back -- the stark coldness of that shut-up room
was not a thing to linger in.
"My!" said Mrs. Peters, dropping the things on the table and
hurrying to the stove.
Mrs. Hale stood examining the clothes the woman who was
being detained in town had said she wanted.
"Wright was close!" she exclaimed, holding up a shabby black
skirt that bore the marks of much making over. "I think maybe
that's
why she kept so much to herself. I s'pose she felt she couldn't
do her part; and then, you don't enjoy things when you feel
shabby. She
used to wear pretty clothes and be lively -- when she was
Minnie Foster, one of the town girls, singing in the choir. But
that -- oh, that
was twenty years ago."
With a carefulness in which there was something tender, she
folded the shabby clothes and piled them at one corner of the
table. She
looked up at Mrs. Peters, and there was something in the other
woman's look that irritated her.

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