A fat man dropped out of the stream and stood a few feet distant,
waiting for his car. Sam crept to his side and shouted above the
tumult into his ear:
"The Rankinses' hogs weighed more'n ourn a whole passel, but the mast
in thar neighborhood was a fine chance better than what it was
down--"
The fat man moved away unostentatiously, and bought roasted chestnuts
to cover his alarm.
Sam felt the need of a drop of mountain dew. Across the street men
passed in and out through swinging doors. Brief glimpses could be
had of a glistening bar and its bedeckings. The feudist crossed and
essayed to enter. Again had Art eliminated the familiar circle. Sam's
hand found no door-knob--it slid, in vain, over a rectangular brass
plate and polished oak with nothing even so large as a pin's head
upon which his fingers might close.
Abashed, reddened, heartbroken, he walked away from the bootless door
and sat upon a step. A locust club tickled him in the ribs.
"Take a walk for yourself," said the policeman. "You've been loafing
around here long enough."
At the next corner a shrill whistle sounded in Sam's ear. He wheeled
around and saw a black-browed villain scowling at him over peanuts
heaped on a steaming machine. He started across the street. An
immense engine, running without mules, with the voice of a bull
and the smell of a smoky lamp, whizzed past, grazing his knee. A
cab-driver bumped him with a hub and explained to him that kind words
were invented to be used on other occasions.
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