I sometimes think that in our general life-classifications we neglect the individual, the exceptional individual, who is always sure to be everywhere, as readily at the bottom of society as at the top, as readily sandwiched between two glaring signs as anywhere else. It is quite all right to admit, for argument’s sake or our own peace of mind, that most of these men are dirty and worn and indifferent, and hence negligible; though it always seems silly to me to assume that a man is indifferent or negligible when he will pack a sign in the cold and snow in order to preserve himself. It is so easy for those of us who are comfortable to assume that the other man does not care, does not feel. Here he comes, though, carrying a sign. Why? To be carrying it because it makes no difference to him? Because he has no emotions? I don’t believe it. I could not believe it. And all the evidence I have personally taken has been to the contrary, decidedly so. I remember seeing once, in the rush of the Christmas trade in New York City a few years ago, a score of these decidedly shabby and broken brethren carrying signs for the edification, allurement and information of the Christmas trade. They were strung out along Sixth Avenue from Twenty-third to Fourteenth Streets, and the messages which their billboards carried were various. I noticed that in the budding gayety of the time these men alone were practically hopeless, dull and gray. The air was fairly crackling with the suggestion of interest and happiness for some. People were hurrying hither and thither, eager about their purchases. There were great van-loads of toys and fineries constantly being moved and transferred. Life seemed to say: “This is the season of gifts and affection,” but it obviously meant nothing to these men. I took a five-dollar bill and had it changed into half-dollars. I stopped before the first old wizened loiterer I met, his sign hanging like a cross from his gaunt shoulder, and before his unsuspecting eyes lifted the half-dollar. Who could be offering him a half-dollar? his eyes seemed indifferently to ask at first. Then a perfect eagle’s gleam flashed into them, old and dull as they were, and a claw-like hand reached for it. No thanks, no acknowledgment, no polite recognition--just grim realization that money, a whole half-dollar, was being given, and a physical, wholly animal determination to get it. What possibilities that half-dollar seemed to hold to that indifferent, unimaginative mind at that moment! What it suggested, apparently, of possible comfort! Why? Because there was no imagination there? because life meant nothing? Not in that case, surely. A whole epic of failure and desire was written in that gleam--and we speak of them as emotionless. [Illustration: The Sandwich Man]