Late afternoon. An hour more and the city will be emptying itself out of
the high buildings. Now the shoppers are hurrying home to get dinner on
the table.
A man stands on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Adams Street.
Unwittingly he invites attention. A poorly dressed man, with a work-heavy
face and coarsened hands. But he stands motionless. More than that, he is
not looking at anything. His deep-set eyes seem to withhold themselves
from the active street.
In the sauve spectacle of the avenue his motionless figure is like an
awkward faux pas in a parlor conversation. The newspaper man on his way to
the I. C. station pauses to light his pipe and his eyes take in the figure
of this motionless one.
The newspaper man notices that the man stands like one who is braced
against something that may come suddenly and that his deep-set eyes say,
"We know what we know." There are other impressions that interest the
newspaper man. For a moment the motionless one seems a blurred little unit
of the hurrying crowd. Then for a moment he seems to grow large and his
figure becomes commanding and it is as if he were surveying the blurred
little faces of the hurrying crowd. This is undoubtedly because he is
standing still and not looking at anything.
* * * * *
"Can I have a light, please?"
The man's voice is low. A bit hoarse. He has a pipe and the newspaper man
gives him a match. Ah, the amiable, meaningless curiosity of newspaper
men! This one must ask questions. It is after work, but, like the
policeman who goes to the movies with his club still at his side, he is
still asking questions.
"Taking in the sights?"
The man, lighting his pipe, nods slowly. Much too slowly, as if his answer
were fraught with a vast significance.
"I like it myself," insinuates the newspaper man. "I was reading Junius
Wood's article on Bill Shatov, who is running things now in Siberia. He
quotes Bill as saying what he misses most in life now is the music of
crowds in Chicago streets. Did you read that?"
This is a brazen lead. But the man looks like a "red." And Bill Shatov
would then open the talk. But the man only shakes his head. He says, "No,
I don't read the papers much."
Now there is something contradictory about this man and his curtness
invites. He seems to have accepted the presence of the newspaper man in an
odd way, an uncity way. After a pause he gestures slightly with his pipe
in his hand and says:
"Quite a crowd, eh?"
The newspaper man nods. The other goes on:
"Where are they going?"
This is more than a question. There is indignation in it. The deepset eyes
gleam.
"I wonder," says the newspaper man. His companion remains staring in his
odd, unseeing way. Then he says:
"They don't look at anything, eh? In a terrible hurry, ain't they? Yeah,
in a rotten hurry."
The newspaper man nods. "Which way you going?" he asks.
"No way," his companion answers. "No way at all. I'm standin' here, see?"
There is a silence. The motionless one has become something queer in the
eyes of the newspaper man. He has become grim, definite, taunting. Here is
a man who questions the people of the street with unseeing eyes. Why? Here
is one who is going "no way." Yet, look at him closely and there is no
sneer in his eyes. His lips hold no contempt.
There you have it. He is a questioning man. He is questioning things that
no one questions--buildings, crowds, windows. And there is some sort of
answer inside him.
* * * * *
"What you talking to me for?"
The newspaper man smiles disarmingly at this sudden inquiry.
"Oh, I don't know," he says. "Saw you standing still. You looked
different. Wondered, you know. Just kind of thought to say hello."
"Funny," says the motionless one.
"I got a hunch you're a stranger in town."
This question the companion answers. "Yeah, a stranger. A stranger. That's
what I am, all right. I'm a stranger, all right. You got me right."
Now the motionless one smiles. This makes his face look uncomfortable.
This makes it seem as if he had been frowning savagely before.
"What do you think of this town?" pursues the newspaper man.
"Think of this town? Think? Say, I ain't thinking. I don't think anything
of it. I'm just looking at it, see? A stranger don't ever think, now, does
he? There, that's one for you."
"When'd you come here?"
"When'd I come here? When? Well, I come here this noon. On the noon train.
Say, don't make me gabby. I never gab any."
Nothing to be got out of this motionless one. Nothing but a question. A
pause, however, and he went on:
"Have you ever seen such a crowd like this? Hurrying? Hm! Some town! There
used to be a hotel over here west a bit."
"The Wellington?"
"Yeah. I don't see it when I pass."
"Torn down."
"Hm!" The deep-set eyes narrow for an instant. Then the motionless one
sighs and his shoulders loosen. His face grows alive and he looks this way
and that. He starts to walk and walks quickly, leaving the newspaper man
standing alone.
* * * * *
The newspaper man watched him. As he stood looking after him some one
tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. "Specs" McLaughlin of the detective
bureau. "Specs" rubbed his chin contemplatively and smiled.
"Know that guy?"
"Who?"
"No; just bumped into him. How come?"
"You might have got a story out of him," "Specs" grinned. "That's George
Cook. Just let out of the Joliet pen this morning. Served fourteen years.
Quite a yarn at the time. For killing a pal in the Wellington hotel over
some dame. I guess that was before your time, though. He just landed in
town this noon."
The detective rubbered into the moving crowd.
"I'm sort of keeping an eye on him," he said, and hurried on.