IT WASN’T THE RAIN that bothered me. I’d felt rain striking against my face often enough, in the prison yard, during the last two years. It was being outside that worried. Sound that was different, traffic, so much movement. So many things going on at once. Confidence was something that a stretch in stir could nibble away at, destroy day by day and night by night. This wasn’t routine, this freedom.I leaned up against the wet brick of a two-story building, perhaps a dozen squares from the prison gate, let the rain drip off the brim of my new, soft hat— and stalled for time. A square to the northward traffic was heavy. Offices were closing up for the day; at intervals I caught the shrill sound of a traffic cop’s whistle. I started northward, swore at myself a few times, stopped. It was no good acting this way. There was nothing to be gained in trying to beat something that couldn’t be beaten this way. 

TORRY JONES STOOD near the rail, forward on the port side, holding a megaphone to his lips. He had a gal on each side of him; they acted as though they didn’t mind it at all. The yacht looked sweet in the setting sun; all ruddy and trim— and very, very big. There was music somewhere aft; it died as the dirty launch wallowed, engine silent, close to the knife-edged prow. Torry called in a stern voice:“Ahoy there! What smart craft is that?”I looked at O’Rourke, who was scowling, his big head turned a little toward me. The scar stood out clearly across his right cheek; whenever I saw the scar, I saw Dingo Bandelli slashing with a knife, saw O’Rourke trying to batter it aside with bare fists. He spat into the Hudson water now, looked at the yacht with contempt in his fine eyes.“Virgin!” I heard him mutter. “Damn woman ship! Lousy, pretty thing!”