“Oh, shut up!” He was dressed now. He slapped his pockets. Harmonica. Cigarettes. Matches. Money. He was off, his long-visored cloth cap pulled jauntily over his eyes.

Elmer, bearing no rancour, flung a last idle query: “Where you going?”

“How should I know? Just bumming around. Bus is outa commission, and I’m outa luck.”

He clattered down the stairs, whistling.

Next door for a shine at the Greek bootblack’s. Enthroned on the dais, a minion at his feet, he was momentarily monarchial. How’s the boy? Good? Same here. Down, his brief reign ended. Out into the bright noon-day glare of Fifty-third Street.

A fried-egg sandwich.