said the driver. “What part of town do you want to go to?”
“Right along here will be just fine,” said Mr. Banghart in an offhand tone. “The boy and I might just as well start looking for jobs along here as anywhere.”
The driver looked with curiosity from Haley to Mr. Banghart. “It’s Sunday, you know. What kind of jobs are you looking for?”
“Oh, preferably some sort of entertainment work,” said Mr. Banghart airily. “I sing.”
The driver laughed incredulously. “Are those the only clothes you’ve got?”
Haley looked down at his faded denim trousers and clay-caked workshoes. Mr. Banghart’s shirt, he remembered, was rent up the back, revealing a bright pink strip of sunburn.
“What, these?” said Mr. Banghart; “Heavens, no. These old things are just for traveling. Our good clothes are at a relative’s house here in Chicago.”
“What part of Chicago?”
“Oh, just about here,” said Mr. Banghart, opening the car door and stepping onto the sidewalk. Haley followed, forgetting to thank the bemused driver, and pursued his companion, who disappeared into the tight currents of the city’s Sunday strollers.
He caught up with him at an intersection, in the bizarre shadows of the elevated overhead. Mr. Banghart was talking earnestly with a policeman, who pointed down the street and shouted above the rumble of trains. “The employment office opens at 8 in the morning,” the policeman said. “Got any money for food and a bed tonight?” Mr. Banghart shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “Then hurry up and get over to the Mission before all the beds are gone,” said the policeman severely. He tapped Mr. Banghart’s shoulder lightly with his nightstick. “And keep out of trouble.”
Haley kept his distance until the policeman had finished his piece, then walked beside Mr. Banghart, who took no notice of him, but strode along, muttering to himself. Haley read his lips. “Keep out of trouble, keep out of trouble,” he was saying.
Haley nudged his arm to get his attention. His companion’s reaction was instant and violent. Haley felt himself seized by his gathered shirtfront and twisted to face Mr. Banghart. “Just let the others make sure
they
keep out of trouble, that’s all,” said Mr. Banghart fiercely. He relaxed his grip under the fascinated glances of passers-by eddying about them. “Sorry,” he said, “didn’t mean anything by it. I know you’re a friend.”
Haley’s impulse was to get away from Mr. Banghart, whose eyes grew more lunatic by the second, but the ranks of unfamiliar faces seemed the more ominous, so he continued to trudge, fearfully, by his side. Following the policeman’s directions, the two of them turned a corner and found themselves on a quiet side street, three blocks long. The city’s noises sounded like a distant surf behind them. Warehouse walls banked the street’s left side, their blank brick faces daubed with posters — tattered reminders of a war bond drive, a musical comedy, a political campaign, of The Greatest Show on Earth. Haley looked from these to the buildings facing them, his eyes running from the twin green globes marking a police station, the worst of Victorian architecture patinated with soot, to a dozen narrow-fronted hotels, taverns, pawnshops, and, at the far end, the blinking cross of the Mission. As though in bas relief, the still, gray figures of silent men stood in doorways or napped on stone steps and the lower treads of fire escapes.
“Hey, buddy, give a pal a smoke, will you?” said a toothless man, stepping from the shadows of an alley.
“I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” said Haley weakly.
“Trash,” said Mr. Banghart. “Ignore them.”
“Hey pal, lemme talk to you a minute… Buddy, got a cigarette?… Spare a dime?” whined 100 voices as Haley and Mr. Banghart picked their way to the Mission. Annie would be preparing dinner now, Haley thought
“Right along here will be just fine,” said Mr. Banghart in an offhand tone. “The boy and I might just as well start looking for jobs along here as anywhere.”
The driver looked with curiosity from Haley to Mr. Banghart. “It’s Sunday, you know. What kind of jobs are you looking for?”
“Oh, preferably some sort of entertainment work,” said Mr. Banghart airily. “I sing.”
The driver laughed incredulously. “Are those the only clothes you’ve got?”
Haley looked down at his faded denim trousers and clay-caked workshoes. Mr. Banghart’s shirt, he remembered, was rent up the back, revealing a bright pink strip of sunburn.
“What, these?” said Mr. Banghart; “Heavens, no. These old things are just for traveling. Our good clothes are at a relative’s house here in Chicago.”
“What part of Chicago?”
“Oh, just about here,” said Mr. Banghart, opening the car door and stepping onto the sidewalk. Haley followed, forgetting to thank the bemused driver, and pursued his companion, who disappeared into the tight currents of the city’s Sunday strollers.
He caught up with him at an intersection, in the bizarre shadows of the elevated overhead. Mr. Banghart was talking earnestly with a policeman, who pointed down the street and shouted above the rumble of trains. “The employment office opens at 8 in the morning,” the policeman said. “Got any money for food and a bed tonight?” Mr. Banghart shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “Then hurry up and get over to the Mission before all the beds are gone,” said the policeman severely. He tapped Mr. Banghart’s shoulder lightly with his nightstick. “And keep out of trouble.”
Haley kept his distance until the policeman had finished his piece, then walked beside Mr. Banghart, who took no notice of him, but strode along, muttering to himself. Haley read his lips. “Keep out of trouble, keep out of trouble,” he was saying.
Haley nudged his arm to get his attention. His companion’s reaction was instant and violent. Haley felt himself seized by his gathered shirtfront and twisted to face Mr. Banghart. “Just let the others make sure
they
keep out of trouble, that’s all,” said Mr. Banghart fiercely. He relaxed his grip under the fascinated glances of passers-by eddying about them. “Sorry,” he said, “didn’t mean anything by it. I know you’re a friend.”
Haley’s impulse was to get away from Mr. Banghart, whose eyes grew more lunatic by the second, but the ranks of unfamiliar faces seemed the more ominous, so he continued to trudge, fearfully, by his side. Following the policeman’s directions, the two of them turned a corner and found themselves on a quiet side street, three blocks long. The city’s noises sounded like a distant surf behind them. Warehouse walls banked the street’s left side, their blank brick faces daubed with posters — tattered reminders of a war bond drive, a musical comedy, a political campaign, of The Greatest Show on Earth. Haley looked from these to the buildings facing them, his eyes running from the twin green globes marking a police station, the worst of Victorian architecture patinated with soot, to a dozen narrow-fronted hotels, taverns, pawnshops, and, at the far end, the blinking cross of the Mission. As though in bas relief, the still, gray figures of silent men stood in doorways or napped on stone steps and the lower treads of fire escapes.
“Hey, buddy, give a pal a smoke, will you?” said a toothless man, stepping from the shadows of an alley.
“I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” said Haley weakly.
“Trash,” said Mr. Banghart. “Ignore them.”
“Hey pal, lemme talk to you a minute… Buddy, got a cigarette?… Spare a dime?” whined 100 voices as Haley and Mr. Banghart picked their way to the Mission. Annie would be preparing dinner now, Haley thought
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