From one or two others they caught “South,” “Kedzie,” “Indiana Avenue.” Some frankly shook their heads with “From th’ old country.” No officer was in sight, and it occurred to neither of them to look for one. They merely instinctively threw themselves on the stream of those others whom they took to be like themselves.
Abruptly the Inger set down his pack in the middle of the walk, and advanced upon the first man whom he saw. On both shoulders of this one he brought down his hands with the grasp of a Titan. Also he shook him slightly:
“You tell me how to get to where I’m goin’ or I’ll lamm the lights out of you!” he roared.
The man—a young timekeeper whose work took him out earlier, so to speak, than his station—regarded the Inger in alarm.
“Lord Heavens,” the young timekeeper said, “how do I know where you’re goin’?”
Still grasping him with one hand, the Inger opened the other and shook Lory’s paper in the man’s face.
“That’s where,” he said. “Now do you know?”
The man looked right and left and took the paper, on which the Inger’s fingers did not loosen.
“Well, get on an Indiana Avenue car and transfer,” he said. “Anybody could tell you that.”