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Man in The Street

Blood and slush—Brain drummed— sweat and blood—the association assaulted Brain decapitating all other ideas with the ruthlessness of the Tudor axe. The thought seered through Brain with crazy revulsion as Body squelched over pavement stones—the newspaper in shoes sodden and cold. Cold as Charity. Charity—the plaything of the rich—the horror of the enforced poor.

The numbed detachedness of Body, apparent to Brain but impotent to aid, went through a monotone of actions-going nowhere yet urged on by some unaccountable motivating force. Force-the Force that says lie down in the gutter through hunger and despair and you are a menace to Society, a ne'er-do-well, a contemptible thief of the atmosphere of the comfortable. Rubbish bin scraps!

But—eye perceives wooden fence— postered "The Wealth of Nations" new play—fringing a climbing iron construction with busy figures and electric drills. And a sign "New Commercial Bank." Eye—Brain sends quick urgent direction —to gate and Foreman. Foreman brusquely—whatdayawant? Body showed numbed hands—work—wage—food— to send warm blood coursing into old channels. No hans wanted-getahell outa here! Solidarity of Labour.

Sodden leather and threadbare clothes with a piece of string for braces, with a mechanical turn, trudged on—and on— and on—Brain whirled—bank building—next to butcher's shop—getahell—and steel, cold steel. Tempered for profits to build mosaic floors and indirect lighting, and other Civilised junk for big business.

Bank—bank—bank—money—mon . . Body and Brain collapsed and could not find themselves-awoke with a number and a stigma for life in a cell with cold steel bars, bars of Society like the new bank, an unwanted reject of capital-no longer a ubiquitous Unemployed—but a forlorn puppet of Slump.

A warning if . . .

—M.L.B.