Martin walked on more slowly, attempting to find a stronger sedative with each horror he passed. A man lay stretched across the sidewalk. His mouth was bleeding, his trousers were open and a slow trickle of urine ran down to the curb. The crowd, apparently oblivious, walked around him and continued down the street. In his rising emotion, Martin nearly stopped. He wanted to cover and protect the man—wanted to carry him to some safe doorstep. But his hesitation was brief; for he knew that this was the accustomed vagary in a clouded, forgotten street—knew that he would be jailed or put to trial as a mischief-maker or a madman if he tried to block the immutable routine of such a land. And so he went on to the restaurant with his heart completely hypnotized because, alive, it could not bear the awareness of such a state.
Noise and confusion were in the cafeteria. A line of men moved slowly past the counter, carrying their trays and pointing to the food they wanted.
Martin picked up a tray, shook off the greasy drops and looked at the signs. They read:
| BREAST OF LAMB! | FIFTEEN CENTS. |
| HAM AND BEANS! | FIFTEEN CENTS. |
| EGG! | FIVE CENTS. |
“Ham and beans!” he shouted against the noise of rattling plates and cups.
The boy behind the counter ladled out a large plate of beans, dropping a slice of boiled ham upon them.
“Milk,” yelled Martin.
He carried his tray to a vacancy on the long, marble-slabbed table.
An old man, bent, unshaven, was scavenging the plates for food that others had left. Martin reached in his pocket for a meal ticket. A boy sitting nearby pulled at his elbow to stop him.
“Don’t be a sucker,” he said. “It’s the old guy’s racket.”