The Living Joss

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HAZY night had settled over Manhattan. The rumble of a departing elevated train came through the mist as a solitary man came down the dingy iron stairway from the downtown station. Reaching the street, the man stopped just beside the steps to light a cigarette which he had thrust in a short, goldbanded holder.

The glare of the match revealed a cunning face, topped with sleek black eyebrows that indicated the color of the man’s hair. Flicking the match into the gutter, the man strolled leisurely along the street beside the elevated, walking with shoulders back, and one hand swinging idly.

There was something of the military in the man’s bearing, combined with a nonchalance. His erect carriage, which made him seem taller than his middle height, was unusual for this locality; for all those who passed him amidst the fog were slouching, furtive characters.

A poorly clad derelict shambled toward the erect walker and whined a request for a few cents to make up coffee money. The reply that he received was a sharp refusal, so scoffing in tone that the bum hastily slouched away. The strolling man emitted an ugly laugh, then puffed at his cigarette. He spied a narrow alleyway through the fog, and turned in that direction.

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