The crowded street had all that prosperous air of catching or
missing something which characterises the town where London and New
York and Dublin meet. Old Heythorp had to cross to the far side, and he
sallied forth without regard to traffic. That snail-like passage had in
it a touch of the sublime; the old man seemed saying: "Knock me down and
be d---d to you--I'm not going to hurry." His life was saved perhaps ten
times a day by the British character at large, compounded of phlegm and
a liking to take something under its protection. The tram conductors on
that line were especially used to him, never failing to catch him under
the arms and heave him like a sack of coals, while with trembling hands
he pulled hard at the rail and strap.
"All right, sir?"
"Thank you."
He moved into the body of the tram, where somebody would always get up
from kindness and the fear that he might sit down on them; and there he
stayed motionless, his little eyes tight closed. With his red face, tuft
of white hairs above his square cleft block of shaven chin, and his big
high-crowned bowler hat, which yet seemed too petty for his head with
its thick hair--he looked like some kind of an idol dug up and decked
out in gear a size too small.
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