“A man who dies in the house where he was born should be ticketed and put into a museum.”
2
The wreckers were at work tearing down the Steele house. Floyd, passing, found Martin in overalls, his hair, face, eyelashes, white with plaster dust, his tongue swinging with the hammer.
“You obstinate devil, I’ll show you who is the master.”
The wall was well built, too well; in the old days they built for the future. He gave it a blow, another, another; it didn’t yield. He worked himself into a purple rage. Blow after blow fell upon the unhappy partition; it trembled, the others jumped away; it fell. Martin stood triumphantly among the ruins.
Floyd’s eyes grew moist. Was there no feeling in the man? Did he realize he had made himself homeless? Now he must join the rich tramps, the poor tramps, that army of wanderers living here awhile, there awhile, places to sleep and eat; luxurious, tawdry, squalid imitations, according to their money value. New York was becoming a homeless city.
He related the incident to Julie.
“Martin looks seedy, he neglects his appearance, he’s a forsaken wretch.”
Julie had a sudden inspiration.