A husky policeman on a motorcycle approached us. He dismounted, looked at us (I was still holding her in the air), and burst into a hoarse guffaw.
“Well, I’ll be.... Beat it now. It’s improper.”
I handed her the mussed white cap. She twisted it with her fingers, and her lips muttered somnolently:
“And at six thirty in the morning I must be on duty....”
III. Will to Power
At a crossing line on a Saturday night about 2 A. M. Tired men, women, children, families, couples, waiting for a street car. Some lean towards the wall, some sit on the sidewalk, on the garbage-box, on the curb. Dull silence. The June night rolls on indifferently.
Suddenly the calm is disturbed by violent screams and oaths. A woman is hurled out by invisible hands from the corner-hotel. She crosses the street towards the waiting crowd, staggers, waves her big handbag, and swears hideously.
No response. The ennui on the faces remains unstirred. The coarse solo of the prostitute, who ejaculates fantastically ugly verbs, nouns, adjectives, bespatters the velvet night.
A baggy figure in a battered derby rises from the sidewalk, and hesitatingly accosts the woman.
“You stop this noise....” Then threateningly: “Want to take a ride?”