His eye was caught by the light switching on in the window of the corner store. Its glare poured yellow onto the dark sidewalk. On Mr Newman’s face an expression of stern indignation spread. His chest expanded and his small jaw became rigid. Open on Sunday, he thought, they never let a penny get away. With sudden angry resolution he sat again in a chair. He would wait for Fred to return, and then have a real talk about this thing. Looking at the yellow light on the corner he felt a strange power flowing into him, it was as though his very body were growing larger. The vision of the bearded and skull-capped man, sitting on his block so snugly, so full of security, arose like incense before him, and he waited in the gathering darkness for the ticking of the dog’s nails.

Chapter Eight

RIDING to Manhattan on the Eighth Avenue subway next morning, he urged the rocking train onward with all his might. This morning, cloudless and hot, the fabulous island at the end of the tube seemed to be awaiting him like some great fair in which he would shop among glittering wares to select the choice of his heart. He was going to look for a job.

All these years he had sniffed around the pillars of the subway feeling densely afraid and hopeful at the same time. For he had never been sure what part he could comfortably play when trouble came. But now he had faced trouble right out on the street in public, and nothing terrible had happened to him; the result, in fact, had been to join him as he had never been joined, in a new comradeship with his neighbors. He felt able, sitting there on the train. Even tough.

A better word might be dashing. After spending so many years on the same floor of one building it was an adventure to look for a job. New surroundings, new and interesting people, possibly a gigantic change in life … Who could tell what his talents were really worth on the open market? It was, it turned out overnight, almost fortunate to have lost the old job. They had been underpaying him frightfully. Now he would positively demand sixty-five to start. Probably he should have made the break of his own accord long ago. As a matter of fact, he thought as he stared pleasantly, he definitely should have.

The train roared on. He was dressed in his newest suit, a Palm Beach gray. His Panama hat curved quite handsomely over his erect, rather stubborn head. He wore a starched collar and a meticulously-tied blue cravat that he had been saving for some special occasion. His fingernails were roundly pared and shone baby pink. There was hardly a crease in his soul. He wore his eyeglasses.

He scanned the want-ad section of the Sunday Times, now that he was settled in his seat. But the paper (which he had contrived to carry out of the house as visible evidence to the corner store that he did hot need a paper this morning) contained nothing of interest to his type of person. Positions such as he might accept were rarely advertised. He was a specialist. His joy kept distracting his concentration from the ads and he looked up to see a sight that quickened him – a car card mounted in the curved corner of the train’s upper side.