Сестра Керри

Chapter XLVII. The Way Of The Beaten: A Harp In The Wind

           Theywereoftheclasswhichsimplyfloatsanddrifts,everywaveofpeoplewashingupone,asbreakersdodriftwooduponastormyshore.

           Fornearlyaquarterofacentury,inanothersectionofthecity,Fleischmann,thebaker,hadgivenaloafofbreadtoanyonewhowouldcomeforittothesidedoorofhisrestaurantatthecornerofBroadwayandTenthStreet,atmidnight.Everynightduringtwentyyearsaboutthreehundredmenhadformedinlineandattheappointedtimemarchedpastthedoorway,pickedtheirloaffromagreatboxplacedjustoutside,andvanishedagainintothenight.Fromthebeginningtothepresenttimetherehadbeenlittlechangeinthecharacterornumberofthesemen.Thereweretwoorthreefiguresthathadgrownfamiliartothosewhohadseenthislittleprocessionpassyearafteryear.Twoofthemhadmissedscarcelyanightinfifteenyears.Therewereaboutforty,moreorless,regularcallers.Theremainderofthelinewasformedofstrangers.Intimesofpanicandunusualhardshipstherewereseldommorethanthreehundred.Intimesofprosperity,whenlittleisheardoftheunemployed,therewereseldomless.Thesamenumber,winterandsummer,instormorcalm,ingoodtimesandbad,heldthismelancholymidnightrendezvousatFleischmann’sbreadbox.

           Atbothofthesetwocharities,duringtheseverewinterwhichwasnowon,Hurstwoodwasafrequentvisitor.Ononeoccasionitwaspeculiarlycold,andfindingnocomfortinbeggingaboutthestreets,hewaiteduntilnoonbeforeseekingthisfreeofferingtothepoor.

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