"Well," said the conductor, "not exactly. I've got it figured out there's
nothing much to that and that they're all kind of alike. They've been to
parties or callin' on their girls or just got restless or somethin'.
What's the difference? All I can say about 'em is that you get so after
years you feel sorry for 'em all. And they're all alike--people as ride on
the night run cars are just more tired than the people I remember used to
ride on the day run cars I was on before my wife died."
The clock in a candy store window says "Three-twelve." A few windows down,
another clock says "Three-five." The newspaper man walks to his home
studying the clocks. They all disagree as before. And yet their faces are
all identical--as identical as the faces of the owl car passengers seem to
the conductor. And here is a clock that has stopped. It says "Twenty after
four." And the newspaper man thinks of the picture the conductor
identified in the papers the next morning. The picture said something like
"Twenty after four" at the wrong time. It's all a bit mixed up.
CONFESSIONS
The rain mutters in the night and the pavements like dark mirrors are
alive with impressionistic cartoons of the city. The little, silent street
with its darkened store windows and rain-veiled arc lamps is as lonely as
a far-away train whistle.
Pages:
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259