It was a slave market. Fifteen cents bought you a
man. You deeded him to Morpheus; and the recording angel gave you
credit.
The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. He had looked over
the list of things one may do for one's fellow man, and had assumed for
himself the task of putting to bed all who might apply at his soap box
on the nights of Wednesday and Sunday. That left but five nights for
other philanthropists to handle; and had they done their part as well,
this wicked city might have become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all
might snooze and snore the happy hours away, letting problem plays and
the rent man and business go to the deuce.
The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small,
dark mass of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General Worth's
monument. Now and then, shyly, ostentatiously, carelessly, or with
conscientious exactness one would step forward and bestow upon the
Preacher small bills or silver. Then a lieutenant of Scandinavian
coloring and enthusiasm would march away to a lodging house with a squad
of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in terms
beautifully devoid of eloquence--splendid with the deadly, accusative
monotony of truth.
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