XXV
HOMELESS
One Cold Morning At Penzance I Got Into An Omnibus At The Station To
Travel To The Small Town Of St. Just, Six Or Seven Miles Away.
Just
before we started, a party of eight or ten queer-looking people came
hurriedly up and climbed to the top seats.
They were men and women,
with two or three children, the women carelessly dressed, the men
chalky-faced and long-haired, in ulsters of light colours and large
patterns. When we had travelled two or three miles one of the outside
passengers climbed down and came in to escape from the cold, and edged
into a place opposite mine. He was a little boy of about seven or eight
years old, and he had a small, quaint face with a tired expression on
it, and wore a soiled scarlet Turkish fez on his head, and a big
pepper-and-salt overcoat heavily trimmed with old, ragged imitation
astrachan. He was keenly alive to the sensation his entrance created
among us when the loud buzz of conversation ceased very suddenly and
all eyes were fixed on him; but he bore it very bravely, sitting back
in his seat, rubbing his cold hands together, then burying them deep in
his pockets and fixing his eyes on the roof. Soon the talk recommenced,
and the little fellow, wishing to feel more free, took his hands out
and tried to unbutton his coat. The top button - a big horn button -
resisted the efforts he made with his stiff little fingers, so I undid
it for him and threw the coat open, disclosing a blue jersey striped
with red, green velvet knickerbockers, and black stockings, all soiled
like the old scarlet flower-pot shaped cap.
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