him calling so loud he could not help hearing. But John never showed up, though the great pleading cries continued.

The young man was about 25 years of age, with brown hair and a tan face and hands. I can see him to this day. He was a vital masculine type, stocky in build, not as tall as Frank. He wore working clothes, such as greenish-khaki pants and shirt. He was handsome. His eyes were green, with the white part all red from crying. Tears streaked his face and he looked wild and distraught. He looked lost as he stood there in front of Frank's house. He put his arms around the tree and sobbed; his shoulders shuddered as his breath came in great heaves. Raising his head he glanced at the menacing, curious people and, as if defying them, cried out again with that terrible hoarse roar: "JOHN! JOHN! COME BACK!”

I saw Marion there near me in the crowd, and as I glanced at him I saw two tears run from his eyes. Even that young I "knew," I "understood." I moved near Marion and he took my hand.

We watched. Someone called the police. But it was a long time before they came from downtown Los Angeles. There were no squad cars everywhere then and few police around Hollywood except the Keystone Kops. Everyone seemed to get along all right without them then, too.

A big pot-bellied German, a swinish, vulgar peasant, had a bakery near the drug store. This oaf now came forward in the crowd with two ropes and a towel. "Come on, men," he shouted. "Let's rush him!"

A few men made a half-hearted move toward the "madman." The brutal baker rushed in boldly and tackled him. A terrific fight ensued and the young man roared like a wild animal. Finally the baker knelt on his back and several men tied his ankles together and then tied his arms behind his back. The baker tied the towel around his open mouth. We all came closer now.

The police finally arrived in a black Packard touring car. They re-tied him and then loaded him into the back seat. One sat in back with him.

The last I saw of him he was on his knees facing the back seat, his arms, now tied in front, resting on the seat. I stood right beside the car and looked in at him, while the policemen wrote things down. The strong young man looked right at me with his tear-stained eyes. I raised my hand to him, as if to say "Hi." I think he understood I was his friend. I glared at the fat baker. Dirty schwein! I made a face at him. Oh! To stick a knife into his belly! As they drove off the young man groaned and raised his head, turning it upward like you see in the pictures of Christ kneeling at the rock in the Garden of Gethsemane.

I said goodnight to Marion and The Dog Woman, and walked home. I let myself in quietly and took up my painting again. No one asked and I never mentioned where I had been.

The voice was stilled.

Along the valley the lights of the curious were turned out.

But the cries of that young man calling in the life of night for the friend he loved have echoed in my memory for about thirty-five years. I wonder what became of him.

And so his voice echoes, echoes, once more, now, into your lives and beyondcarried away on the great river of life, seen once, but unforgotten.

13