The Hand

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THE man on the corner looked like a Bowery bum. He was bent-shouldered, droopy-faced, with a bleary gaze that seemed to have two purposes. The first was to find prosperous-looking passersby who could be touched for a drink; the other, to avoid any patrolman who might come along.

The panhandler had chosen a place frequented by those of his ilk. He was beneath the high-built elevated structure at Chatham Square, near the outskirts

of New York's Chinatown. Many visitors who scorned the Chinatown busses came to

the Oriental quarter by the elevated. It was easy to halt them and make the old

plea for a cup of coffee.

The one trouble was that too many other bums had the same idea. There was a horde of them about - furtive, vulture-eyed, all hoping to gain their quota of small change.

A squatty hard-faced man came down the steps from the elevated. He gave a contemptuous glance that took in the array of panhandlers. Most of them shifted

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