"Pretty awful, isn't it?" said the agent to me. "You wouldn't think they were out of work. That's part of the game: they must look smart!"
* * *
A big negro put his head round the door, took off a battered bowler, exposed his gums, and said:
"Mornin', boss. Does any guy wanter a good ord'nary nigger?"
As he went out he came into collision with a tall, pale young man who wore spats but no overcoat. He too, was sent away.
"We get lots like that," said the agent, "well-bred young fellows wearing college ties, who manage to keep their spats white though their shoes probably need soleing. In fact, we get all sorts. But all the men and women who come up here looking as though a thousand a year would be an insult would be grateful for two pound a week. They all look smart."
* * *
That is part of their tragedy.
They may be "resting," but they cannot afford to stop acting. The only consolation is that, as everybody knows, luck turns, the darkest hour precedes the dawn, and so on, and so on!
Hope has kept more people alive than all doctors ever born.