He stood in a box in the reserved section of a movie house and the impulse he had had to tell the people in the church to stop their singing seized him again. These people were laughing at their lives, at the animated shadows of themselves. Why did they not rise up and go out into the sunlight and do some deed that would make them live? Compassion translated itself into actuality; in his imagination he stepped out of the box, walked out upon the thin air, walked on down to the audience; and, hovering in air just above their heads, he stretched out his hands and tried to touch them.

His tension lessened, and he found himself back in the box, looking down into the sea of faces. No; it could not be done. He could not awaken them. He sighed; yes, they were children, sleeping in their living, awake in their dying. . . .

III

He turned away, parted the black curtain and looked out; he saw no one and walked to the white stone steps that led to the basement. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he saw a white man in trim blue uniform coming toward him. So used had his judgment become to living underground that he thought foolishly that he could walk right on past the man, as though he were a kind of ghost. Then the sheer reality of it came to him; he was real and so was this man whose grey eyes, as they came near him, were looking intently at him. He stopped and the man stopped.

“You’re looking for the men’s room, sir?” the man asked politely, giving a little salute; and, without waiting for a reply, he turned and pointed: “Right down this way, sir. The door to your left.”

He watched the man walk up the steps and go out of sight.

He laughed silently, then went back to the basement and stood in the red shadows listening to the incessant roll of voices. He started at hearing footsteps; he crawled quickly into the coal bin. Lumps rattled noisily. The footsteps came into the basement and stopped. He waited, sweating, crouching with aching back. For a long time there was silence. Then he heard the tinny clang of metal and the room was lit to a brighter glow of red. Somebody’s tending the furnace, he thought. Footsteps came closer and he grew taut. Looming before him was a white face lined with coal dust, the face of an old man with white hair and blue eyes. Highlights spotted his gaunt cheekbones and he held a huge shovel in his hands. There was a screechy scrape of metal against stone as the shovel scooted along the concrete floor. Grunting, the old man lifted a full shovel of coal and went from sight.

The red glow of the basement dimmed momentarily as coal was tossed into the fire; then a bright, yellow sheen came as the coal flared. The old man came back for more coal, but not once did he lift his eyes. As he watched the man, sweat formed into rivulets and ran down his chin, congealing into drops and splashing onto his fingers; his body was weeping tears of terror. Six times the old man came to the bin and then went to the furnace with shovels of coal. Finally the furnace door banged shut. The old man shuffled back to the coal bin with averted eyes and took out a dirty handkerchief and mopped his face. “Whew,” he breathed. With palsied hand he hung the shovel upon a hook on the wall and turned and trudged slowly out of the basement. His footsteps died away.