And a strange pathos, a
pathos that my beggar with one leg and a pleading face never had.
I do not like cynics. I like Jim better. I like Jim and his burning eyes,
his skinny hands, his dying body--and his store. Fighting--with the lights
going out. Sitting in a wheel chair with death at his back and despair
crying from his eyes--"Come buy from me--a little while longer--I don't
give up ... another week ... another month ... but I don't give up. I'm
still on the turf.... Never mind my dying body ... business as usual ...
business as usual.... Come buy from me ... little while longer ... a...."
But I never gave a nickel to Jim. I passed up his store. I took him at his
word. He was selling wares and I didn't want any. But my beggar with the
one leg and the inward grin was selling absolutions.... And I patronized
him.
THE MAN WITH A QUESTION
Late afternoon. An hour more and the city will be emptying itself out of
the high buildings. Now the shoppers are hurrying home to get dinner on
the table.
A man stands on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Adams Street.
Unwittingly he invites attention. A poorly dressed man, with a work-heavy
face and coarsened hands. But he stands motionless.
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