In the distance a yellow light swings like an idle lantern over the car
tracks. So the newspaper man stops at the corner and waits. This is the
owl car. It may not stop. Sometimes cars have a habit of roaring by with
an insulting indifference to the people waiting for them to stop at the
corner. At such moments one feels a fine rage, as if life itself had
insulted one. There have been instances of men throwing bricks through the
windows of cars that wouldn't stop and cheerfully going to jail for the
crime.
But this car stops. It comes to a squealing halt that must contribute
grotesquely to the dreams of the sleepers in Sheffield Avenue. The night
is cool. As the car stands silent for a moment it becomes, with its
lighted windows and its gay paint, like some modernized version of the
barque in which Jason journeyed on his quest.
* * * * *
The seats are half filled. The newspaper man stands on the platform with
the conductor and stares at the passengers. The conductor is an elderly
man with an unusually mild face.
The people in the car try to sleep. Their heads try to make use of the
window panes for pillows. Or they prop their chins up in their palms or
they are content to nod.
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