OBSERVATIONS OF A RETIRED VETERAN XII


Somehow the town presents to me a bereaved appearance. Since the action
of the authorities clearing the sidewalks, I seem to miss some of my
best friends. The tenants of the pavement had become my companions,
after a fashion, so familiar were they to me. The extravagant gentleman
who stood in front of the clothing store, with his change of clothes
every day and the fixed stare out of his rain-washed eyes, was one of
my warmest friends. He was no fair weather friend. The dusts of March,
the showers of April, made no difference with him. He was there, always
there, with his waterproof for the rain, his duster for the summer
heat, and his sou-wester perched on his head when the Equinox set in.
He had one of the most even dispositions I ever knew and always regarded
me with the same mild, far-off look, whatever uniform or decoration
he wore. He was the same with a blue jumper and overalls as he was
with a diagonal suit with "This style $25" flying from the button-hole.
There was a great gap the morning he disappeared. The deserted street
looked like a Sunday or a funeral or some other occasion of unusual
sadness. I went in one day to inquire about him. I didn't have far to
go; he had been tumbled into a corner with empty collar boxes, a broken
coal scuttle, and some fire kindling. He appeared deeply mortified.
"This is a strange fix you find me in, Mr. Boyzy," he said as he
struggled to sit endwise on the bottom of the coal scuttle, "and it
is a strange world we find both of ourselves in, sir. Great crimes are
committed in the name of progress, sir, very great, and this is one
of them. I have been a public man in this city for ten years, sir. I