The travellin' man set down his scuffed and scraped leather suitcase.
Taking off his tan derby, he mopped at this shaven head with the stained handkerchief he kept in the back pocket of his suit pants.
A buzzing overhead caught his attention. He lifted his gaze from the dusty street to find he was standing directly beneath the telephone lines that stretched from one wooden pole to another.
A quarter mile back he had seen Ethel Rosenberg watching his progress from the shadows of her porch. By now Ethel had called each and every one of her friends who in turn were calling all of theirs.
He grinned, watching the weight of the racing gossip cause the phone lines to sag nearly low enough for him to reach up and touch.
Oh yes, the town knew of his coming.
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