“This is a hell of a lousy stinking flop,” went on the voice evenly. “I’ll tell the world ... Forty cents too! They can take their Hotel Plaza an ...”
“Been long in the city?”
“Ten years come August.”
“Great snakes!”
A voice rasped down the line of cots, “Cut de comedy yous guys, what do you tink dis is, a Jewish picnic?”
Bud lowered his voice: “Funny, it’s years I been thinkin an wantin to come to the city.... I was born an raised on a farm upstate.”
“Why dont ye go back?”
“I cant go back.” Bud was cold; he wanted to stop trembling. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and rolled over facing the man who was talking. “Every spring I says to myself I’ll hit the road again, go out an plant myself among
the weeds an the grass an the cows comin home milkin time, but I dont; I juss kinder hangs on.”
“What d’ye do all this time in the city?”