waiting for soup-tickets.

A reader of words of wind-demons might have been able to see
the portions of a dialogue pass to and fro between the exhorter and
his hearers.

"You are damned," said the preacher. And the reader of sounds
might have seen the reply go forth from the ragged people: "Where's
our soup?"

Jimmie and a companion sat in a rear seat and commented upon
the things that didn't concern them, with all the freedom of
English gentlemen. When they grew thirsty and went out their minds
confused the speaker with Christ.

Momentarily, Jimmie was sullen with thoughts of a hopeless
altitude where grew fruit. His companion said that if he
should ever meet God he would ask for a million dollars and a
bottle of beer.

Jimmie's occupation for a long time was to stand on streetcorners
and watch the world go by, dreaming blood-red dreams at the passing
of pretty women. He menaced mankind at the intersections of streets.

On the corners he was in life and of life. The world was
going on and he was there to perceive it.

He maintained a belligerent attitude toward all well-dressed
men. To him fine raiment was allied to weakness, and all good
coats covered faint hearts. He and his order were kings, to a