"--But the hand of death had
already passed over Vera.
The Little Master of the Sky didn't need a grave and didn't want one.
But they dug one for him just the same, at the end of the town. While
his pigeons encircled the sky and swished the air, the villagers
straightened his twisted, little body and slipped it into a narrow box,
and lowered him down. The poor folk gave him a little grave, but he
doesn't need it for he never uses it.
THE MAN WITH THE GOOD FACE[16]
By FRANK LUTHER MOTT
(From _The Midland_)
A subway express train roared into the Fourteenth Street Station and
came to a full stop, and the doors slid open. It was just at the lull of
traffic before the rush of the late afternoon, and the cars were only
comfortably filled. As the train stopped, a small, unobtrusive man,
sitting near one end of the third car, quickly rose from his seat on the
side of the car facing the station platform, and peered through the
opposite windows. All the way up from Wall Street this little man had
sat quietly observing through his deep-set grey eyes every man or woman
who had entered or left the car. His figure was slight, and the office
pallor that overspread his serious face seemed to give to his eyes a
singular intensity of gaze. Now he peered intently out at the people on
the Fourteenth Street platform.
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