, fashioned in ornate tiaras, crowns,
necklaces, collars, etc. From each piece hangs an enormous tag
from which a dollar sign and numerals in intermittent electric
lights wink out the incredible prices. The same in the furrier's.
Rich furs of all varieties hang there bathed in a downpour of
artificial light. The general effect is of a background of
magnificence cheapened and made grotesque by commercialism, a
background in tawdry disharmony with the clear light and sunshine
on the street itself.
Up the side street Yank and Long come swaggering. Long is dressed
in shore clothes, wears a black Windsor tie, cloth cap. Yank is in
his dirty dungarees. A fireman's cap with black peak is cocked
defiantly on the side of his head. He has not shaved for days and
around his fierce, resentful eyes--as around those of Long to a
lesser degree--the black smudge of coal dust still sticks like
make-up. They hesitate and stand together at the corner,
swaggering, looking about them with a forced, defiant contempt.
LONG--[Indicating it all with an oratorical gesture.] Well, 'ere
we are. Fif' Avenoo. This 'ere's their bleedin' private lane, as
yer might say. [Bitterly.] We're trespassers 'ere. Proletarians
keep orf the grass!
YANK--[Dully.] I don't see no grass, yuh boob.
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