"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.