Then nothing could be distinguished above the uproar. Everybody present took part in the argument. The ragged fellows who had come in with Gypo, curiously enough, took no interest in the argument. Those of them that had not already disappeared as soon as they got their food, now took their leave when the argument began. There was even a look of fear in their faces as they slunk away, as if this demonstration of interest in the affairs of the world terrified them, who had no interest in anything, since their souls were numbed by the hopelessness of despair. Only a few of the most wretched remained, crouching against the counter, in the comforting shadow of Gypo’s immensity. They remained because the presence of his powerful personality comforted them and gave them the imaginary feeling of having something to protect them from the menace of civilized life. Those that were now taking part in the argument were of a better class. They were workers of all sorts, members of trade unions and respectable people. They had appeared somehow, one by one but rapidly, in that mysterious way in which crowds of people of a certain type gather in the Titt Street district and carry on an argument with furious heat. Gypo suddenly turned around and looked at the wrangling group, at the open mouths, the listening ears, the distorted faces, the glittering eyes. He listened. He blinked. Then he laughed softly within himself. He felt a crazy desire to yell and fall on them with his fists. The mixed murmur of their agitated voices had a maddening effect on him. But he looked back at the counter. He still had food to eat. He continued his meal. The argument went on. The man with the long overcoat who had just arrived held the attention of the crowd. He was a well-known man in the district and all over the city. He owned a small tobacconist and newsvendor’s shop. He was called The Crank Shanahan and indeed he was a crank. He belonged to no organization, he went about alone, he attended every political meeting in the city and he was continually, in all weathers, agitating and preaching in a loud shrill voice his own peculiar philosophy of social life. That philosophy was a mixture of all sorts of political creeds, but its main basis was revolt against every existing institution, habit or belief. He was called an anarchist, but he was not an anarchist. He was just a fanatic who was dissatisfied with life. At night he was given to fearfully morbid thoughts that caused him to lock and bar himself in his room and sleep with the blankets right over his head. He was even supposed to put cotton-wool into his ears at night lest he might hear a sound. And once the policeman on duty found him wandering around the street in which he lived, at three o’clock in the morning, dressed in a torn nightshirt, trembling and gnashing his teeth with terror. He had jumped up horrified by a nightmare and rushed out in that state.