"Naow, what you doin' here? How'd you get in here?" Billy Ray demanded. Open on the desk in front of the man was the town's account books. That was the next thing Billy Ray saw.

"Name's Jude." Somehow the way he said his name commanded attention.

"Seems there are a few numbers missing from your books, mister mayor. Seems like mebbe you been spending a lot on yourself and the town has to go without, mister mayor."

Poteat squirmed. The man hadn't accused him of a thing, yet he felt waves of nausea. "What . . . what are you going to do?" Billy Ray stammered in a subdued voice.

"Nothing," said the tall man, "You are." The man was a tramp. The dog was that same old ragged cur he had seen around town for months. But there was something about this man. Billy Ray was afraid. Somehow he felt dirtier than this man looked.

"Being a swine-herder . . . or should I say, a pig farmer is a noble profession, Billy Ray. What do you suppose would happen to those pigs if they had the same kind of spirit in them as you have in you?"

The mayor thought for a very long moment. He couldn't know how or why he said what he said but at length he mumbled dejectedly, "I suppose they would all run into the mill pond and drown."

"Now you wouldn't want something like that to happen to those fine porkers of yours . . . " The big man rose out of Billy Ray's chair, came around the old wooden desk and put his arm around Billy Ray's shoulders. "You'll know what to do my friend," squeezing the mayor's shoulders. With that, the stranger walked out of the mayor's office.

"When his arm was around me . . ." thought Billy Ray. He couldn't finish. "The townsfolk. The maintenance crew." He seemed bewildered. "The maintenance crew! Where's that cotton-pickin' maintenance crew!?" He rushed down the stairs and ran out the door.