Toward midnight, on the tenth day of the heat, a slight freshness tempered the infernal atmosphere of the streets. It was almost a breeze. In the Park dry leaves rustled slightly. Sleepers on bench and withered sward stirred, sighed, relaxed again into semi-stupor.
Two men in light clothes and straw hats, crossing the Park from West to East, paused on the asphalt path to gaze upon the thousands of prostrate figures.
“Yonder’s a sob-stuff story for you, Barry,” remarked the shorter man.
“There’s more than one story there,” said the other.
“No, only one. I’ll tell you that story: these people had rather work and die in their putrid tenements than work and live in the wholesome countryside. You can’t kick these town rats out of their rat-ridden city. They like to fester and swarm. And when any species swarms, Barry, Nature presently decimates it.”
They moved along slowly, looking out over the dim meadows heaped with unstirring forms.
“Perhaps,” admitted Annan, who had been addressed as Barry, “the mass story is about what you outlined, Mike; but there are other stories there——” He made a slight gesture toward the meadow, “The whole gamut from farce to tragedy....”
“The only drama in that mess is rooted in stupidity.”
“That’s where all tragedy is rooted.... I could step in among those people and in ten minutes I could bring back material for a Hugo, a Balzac, a Maupassant, a Dumas——”
“Why don’t you? It’s your job to look for literary loot in human scrap heaps. Here’s life’s dumping ground. You’re the chiffonier. Why not start business?”