Mick looked at him for a long moment. Butchie Saylor had set his stack of chairs down on the floor and was standing there with his arms hanging, as if he did not know what to do with them. Somewhere down by the stage the district man was saying "Testing, testing, judges please report to the scorer's table, judges to the scorer's table," and the microphone squealed again and somebody laughed.
And then Mick did something Calvert did not expect. He did not reach past him. He did not shove him, which Calvert had been bracing for since the word move, bracing in the way he imagined you braced for a cold wave, every muscle tight and stupid. Instead Mick looked down. He looked at the front of the cardigan. He looked at it the way you look at a word you have seen somewhere before and cannot place, and his eyes went down the cable on the left side, the braid, to where it broke apart at the bottom hem into two separate ropes that ran down to the ribbing and stopped.
"Where'd your grandfather get that," Mick said.
"I don't know. It was in his chest. With the book."
"Turn around."
"What?"
"I'm not going to do anything. Turn around. Show me the back."
Calvert hesitated. Then, because there was something in Mick's voice that had not been there before, something flat and careful, he turned, slowly, a half turn, so that his shoulder was to the board and his back was to Mick. He felt Mick's eyes on him. He felt, ridiculously, a hand very lightly touch the back of the cardigan, between the shoulder blades, one finger, the way the old woman in the church coat had touched Francis Gallagher's name.
"There's a mistake in it," Mick said behind him. "Right here. One of the twists goes the wrong way."