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never seen a man cry like that."
"Where is the geranium?" Old Dudley quavered. "It ought to be there. Not you."
"This is my window," the man said. "I got a right to set here if I want to."
"Where is it?" Old Dudley shrilled. There was just a little room left in his throat.
"It fell off if it's any of your business," the man said.
Old Dudley got up and peered over the window ledge. Down in the alley, way six floors down, he could see a cracked flower pot scattered over a spray of dirt and something pink sticking out of a green paper bow. It was down six floors. Smashed down six floors.
Old Dudley looked at the man who was chewing gum and waiting to see the throat pop. "You shouldn't have put it so near the ledge," he murmured. "Why don't you pick it up?"
"Why don't you, pop?"
Old Dudley stared at the man who was where the geranium should have been.
He would. He'd go down and pick it up. He'd put it in his own window and look at it all day if he wanted to. He turned from the window and left the room. He walked slowly down the dog run and got to the steps. The steps
