〃George； you're never going to make much of a lawyer； corporation or
otherwise； if you can't control that。 Law isn't like soccer。 Two hours of
practice every night won't cut it。 What are you going to do； stand up in front
of a board meeting and say； ‘Nuh…nuh…now； g…gentlemen； about this t…ttort'？〃
He suddenly flushed； not with anger but with shame at his own cruelty。 This
was not a man in front of him but a seventeen…year…old boy who was facing the
first major defeat of his life； and maybe asking in the only way he could for
Jack to help him find a way to cope with it。
George gave him a final； furious glance； his lips twisting and bucking as the
words bottled up behind them struggled to find their way out。
〃Yuh…yuh…you s…s…set it ahead！ You huh…hate me b…because you nuh…nuh…nuh…know
。。。 you know 。。。 nuh…nuh — 〃
With an articulate cry he had rushed out of the classroom； slamming the door
hard enough to make the wire…reinforced glass rattle in its frame。 Jack had
stood there； feeling； rather than hearing； the echo of George's Adidas in the
empty hall。 Still in the grip of his temper and his shame at mocking George's
stutter； his first thought had been a sick sort of exultation： For the first
time in his life George Hatfield had wanted something he could not have。 For the
first time there was something wrong that all of Daddy's money could not fix。
You couldn't bribe a speech center。 You couldn't offer a tongue an extra fifty a
week and a bonus at Christmas if it would agree to stop flapping like a record
needle in a defective groove。 Then the exultation was simply buried in shame；
and he felt the way he had after he had broken Danny's arm。
Dear God； I am not a son of a bitch。 Please。
That sick happiness at George's retreat was more typical of Denker in the play
than of Jack Torrance the playwright。
You hate me because you know 。。。
Because he knew what？
What could he possibly know about George Hatfield that would make him hate
him？ That his whole future lay ahead of him？ That he looked a little bit like
Robert Redford and all conversation among the girls stopped when he did a double
gainer from the pool diving board？ That he played soccer and baseball with a
natural； unlearned grace？
Ridiculous。 Absolutely absurd。 He envied George Hatfield nothing。 If the truth
was known； he felt worse about George's unfortunate stutter than George himself；
because George really would have made an excellent debater。 And if Jack had set
the timer ahead — and of course he hadn't — it would have been because both he and
the other members of the squad were embarrassed for George's struggle； they had
agonized over it the way you agonize when the Class Night speaker forgets some
of his lines。 If he had set the timer ahead； it would have been just to 。。。 to
put George out of his misery。
But he hadn't set the timer ahead。 He was quite sure of it。
A week later he had cut him； and that time he had kept his temper。 The shouts
and the threats had all been on George's side。 A week after that he had gone out
to the parking lot halfway through practice to get a pile of sourcebooks that he
had left in the trunk of the VW and there had been George； down on one knee with
his long blond hair swinging in his face； a hunting knife in one hand。 He was
sawing through the VW's right front tire。 The back tires were already shredded；
and the bug sat on the flats like a small； tired dog。
Jack had seen red； and remembered very little of the encounter that followed。
He remembered a thick growl that seemed to issue from his own throat： 〃All
right； George。 If that's how you want it； just e here and take your
medicine。〃
He remembered George looking up； startled and fearful。 He had said： 〃Mr。
Torrance — 〃 as if to explain how all this was just a mistake； the tires had been
flat when he got there and he was just cleaning dirt out of the front treads
with the tip of this gutting knife he just happened to have with him and —
Jack had waded in； his fists held up in front of him； and it seemed that he
had been grinning。 But he wasn't sure of that。
The last thing be remembered was George holding up the knife and saying： 〃You
better not e any closer — 〃
And the next thing was Miss Strong； the French teacher； holding Jack's arms；
crying； screaming： 〃Stop it； Jack！ Stop it！ You're going to kill him！〃
He had blinked around stupidly。 There was the hunting knife； glittering
harmlessly on the parking lot asphalt four yards away。 There was his Volkswagen；
his poor old battered bug； veteran of many wild midnight drunken rides； sitting
on three flat shoes。 There was a new dent in the right front fender； he saw； and
there was something in the middle of the dent that was either red paint or
blood。 For a moment he had been confused； his thoughts
（jesus christ al we hit him after all）
of that other night。 Then his eyes had shifted to George； George lying dazed
and blinking on the asphalt。 His debate group had e out and they were huddled
together by the door； staring at George。 There was blood on his face from a
scalp laceration that looked minor； but there was also blood running out of one
of George's ears and that probably meant a concussion。 When George tried to get
up； Jack shook free of Miss Strong and went to him。 George cringed。
Jack put his hands on George's chest and pushed him back down。 〃Lie still；〃 he
said。 〃Don't try to move。〃 He turned to Miss Strong； who was staring at them
both with horror。
〃Please go call the school doctor； Miss Strong；〃 be told her。 She turned and
fled toward the office。 He looked at his debate class then； looked them right in
the eye because he was in charge again； fully himself； and when he was himself
there wasn't a nicer guy in the whole state of Vermont。 Surely they knew that。
〃You can go home now；〃 he told them quietly。 〃We'll meet again tomorrow。〃
But by the end of that week six of his debaters had dropped out； two of them
the class of the act； but of course it didn't matter much because he had been
informed by then that he would be dropping out himself。
Yet somehow he had stayed off the bottle； and he supposed that was something。
And he had not hated George Hatfield。 He was sure of that。 He had not acted
but had been acted upon。
You hate me because you know 。。。
But he had known nothing。 Nothing。 He would swear that before the Throne of
Almighty God； just as he would swear that he had set the timer ahead no more
than a minute。 And not out of hate but out of pity。
Two wasps were crawling sluggishly about on the roof beside the hole in the
flashing。
He watched them until they spread their aerodynamically unsound but strangely
efficient wings and lumbered off into the October sunshine； perchance to sting
someone else。 God had seen fit to give them stingers and Jack supposed they had
to use them on somebody。
How long had he been sitting there； looking at that hole with its unpleasant
surprise down inside； raking over old coals？ He looked at his watch。 Almost half
an hour。