in the attic."
"All right, men, let's get 'em!"
Next thing they were up in musty blackness, swinging silver hatchets at doors that were, after all, unlocked, tumbling through like boys all rollick and shout.
"Hey!"
A fountain of books sprayed down on Montag as he climbed shuddering up the steep stair well. Books bombarded his shoulders, his pale face. A book lit, almost obediently, like a white pigeon, in his hands, wings fluttering.
In the dim, wavering light a page hung open and it was like a snowy feather, the words delicately painted thereon. In all the rush and fervor, Montag had only an instant to read a line, but it blazed in his mind for the next minute as if stamped there with a fiery iron. He dropped the book. Immediately, another fell into his arms.
"Montag, come on up!"
Montag's hand closed like a trap, crushed the book with wild devotion, with an insanity of mindlessness to his chest. The men above were hurling shovelfuls of literature into the dusty air. They fell like slaughtered birds and the woman stood like a small girl among the bodies.
"Montag!"
He climbed up into the attic. " 'This too shall pass away.' "
"What?" Leahy glared at him.
Montag froze, blinking. "Did I say something?"
"Move, you idiot!"
THE books lay in piles like fishes left to dry.
"Trash! Trash!" The men danced on the books. Titles glittered their golden eyes, falling, gone.
"Kerosene!"
They pumped the cool fluid from the white snake they had twined upstairs. They coated every book; they pumped rooms full of it.
"This is better than the old man's place last night, eh?"
That had not been as much fun. The old man had lived in an apartment house with other people. They had had to use controlled fire there. Here, they could ravage the entire house.
They ran downstairs, Montag reeling after them in the kerosene fumes.
"Come on, woman!"
"My books," she said, quietly. She knelt among them to touch the drenched leather, to read the gilt titles with her fingers instead of her eyes, while her eyes accused Montag.
"You can't take my books," she said.
"You know the law," said Leahy. "Pure nonsense, all of it. No two books alike, none agreeing. Confusion. Stories about people who never existed. Come on, now."
"No," she said.
"The whole house'll burn."
"I won't go."
The three men walked clumsily to the door. They glanced back at Montag who stood near the woman.
"You're not leaving her here?" he protested.
"She won't come."
"But she's got to!"
Leahy raised his hand. It contained the concealed igniter to start the fire. "Got to get back to the station. Besides, she'd cost us a trial, money, jail."
Montag placed his hand around the woman's elbow. "You can come with me."
"No." She actually focused her eyes on him for a moment. "Thank you, anyway."
"I'm counting to ten," said Leahy. "One, two..."
"Please," said Montag.
"Go on," said the woman.
"Three," said Leahy.
"Come." Montag pulled at her.
"I want to stay here," she replied, quietly.
"Four... five..."
The woman twisted. Montag slipped on an oily book and fell. The woman ran up the stairs half way and stood there with the books at her feet.
"Six... seven... Montag," said Leahy.
Montag did not move. He looked out the door at that man there with the pink face, pink and burned and shiny from too many fires, pink from night excitements, the pink face of Mr. Leahy with the igniter poised in his pink fingers.
Montag felt the book hidden against his pounding chest.
"Go get him!" ordered Leahy.
THE men dragged Montag yelling from the house.
Leahy backed out after them, leaving a kerosene trail down the walk. When they were a hundred feet away, Montag was still shouting and kicking. He glanced wildly back.
In the front door where she had come to gaze out at them quietly, her
"All right, men, let's get 'em!"
Next thing they were up in musty blackness, swinging silver hatchets at doors that were, after all, unlocked, tumbling through like boys all rollick and shout.
"Hey!"
A fountain of books sprayed down on Montag as he climbed shuddering up the steep stair well. Books bombarded his shoulders, his pale face. A book lit, almost obediently, like a white pigeon, in his hands, wings fluttering.
In the dim, wavering light a page hung open and it was like a snowy feather, the words delicately painted thereon. In all the rush and fervor, Montag had only an instant to read a line, but it blazed in his mind for the next minute as if stamped there with a fiery iron. He dropped the book. Immediately, another fell into his arms.
"Montag, come on up!"
Montag's hand closed like a trap, crushed the book with wild devotion, with an insanity of mindlessness to his chest. The men above were hurling shovelfuls of literature into the dusty air. They fell like slaughtered birds and the woman stood like a small girl among the bodies.
"Montag!"
He climbed up into the attic. " 'This too shall pass away.' "
"What?" Leahy glared at him.
Montag froze, blinking. "Did I say something?"
"Move, you idiot!"
THE books lay in piles like fishes left to dry.
"Trash! Trash!" The men danced on the books. Titles glittered their golden eyes, falling, gone.
"Kerosene!"
They pumped the cool fluid from the white snake they had twined upstairs. They coated every book; they pumped rooms full of it.
"This is better than the old man's place last night, eh?"
That had not been as much fun. The old man had lived in an apartment house with other people. They had had to use controlled fire there. Here, they could ravage the entire house.
They ran downstairs, Montag reeling after them in the kerosene fumes.
"Come on, woman!"
"My books," she said, quietly. She knelt among them to touch the drenched leather, to read the gilt titles with her fingers instead of her eyes, while her eyes accused Montag.
"You can't take my books," she said.
"You know the law," said Leahy. "Pure nonsense, all of it. No two books alike, none agreeing. Confusion. Stories about people who never existed. Come on, now."
"No," she said.
"The whole house'll burn."
"I won't go."
The three men walked clumsily to the door. They glanced back at Montag who stood near the woman.
"You're not leaving her here?" he protested.
"She won't come."
"But she's got to!"
Leahy raised his hand. It contained the concealed igniter to start the fire. "Got to get back to the station. Besides, she'd cost us a trial, money, jail."
Montag placed his hand around the woman's elbow. "You can come with me."
"No." She actually focused her eyes on him for a moment. "Thank you, anyway."
"I'm counting to ten," said Leahy. "One, two..."
"Please," said Montag.
"Go on," said the woman.
"Three," said Leahy.
"Come." Montag pulled at her.
"I want to stay here," she replied, quietly.
"Four... five..."
The woman twisted. Montag slipped on an oily book and fell. The woman ran up the stairs half way and stood there with the books at her feet.
"Six... seven... Montag," said Leahy.
Montag did not move. He looked out the door at that man there with the pink face, pink and burned and shiny from too many fires, pink from night excitements, the pink face of Mr. Leahy with the igniter poised in his pink fingers.
Montag felt the book hidden against his pounding chest.
"Go get him!" ordered Leahy.
THE men dragged Montag yelling from the house.
Leahy backed out after them, leaving a kerosene trail down the walk. When they were a hundred feet away, Montag was still shouting and kicking. He glanced wildly back.
In the front door where she had come to gaze out at them quietly, her
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