Mr. Crook sequestered himself in the back corner, nose buried in his papers. Essie hoped the smell of a clean store and a fresh pot of coffee brought a token of pleasure to his tedious task. As she worked, Misters Vandervoort, Richie, Jenkins, and Owen took turns sliding checkers back and forth across a grimy board. Sometimes they pondered each move and sometimes they pushed the little discs without any apparent thought, but all the while they debated everything from the destiny of man to the finest bait for catching fish. No matter where the conversation strayed, though, it always came back to the topic on everyone’s mind, the question of Corsicana’s economic future. ‘‘Wall, we gotta do somethin’,’’ Jenkins was saying. ‘‘With cotton prices droppin’ ever’ day and Mr. Neblett’s seed house shut down, this town’s gonna shrivel up and die.’’ ‘‘What about putting up some brick buildings in the square?’’ Owen suggested. ‘‘That would attract businesses to town.’’ Vandervoort harrumphed.
