Instinctively Katz put a hand to his head, looked at it in horror — he was
always something of a sissy where excrement was concerned; I once saw him
running through Greenwood Park in Des Moines like the figure in Edvard Munch's «The Scream» just because he had inadvertently probed some dog shit with the tip of his
finger — and with only a mumbled «Wait here» walked with ramrod stiffness in the direction of our hotel.