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Updated: May 17, 2025
Jensen, the frank and handsome Dane who works for the Germans at Taka-Uka who was in the breadline in New York and swears he will never return to civilization, told me that when he kept a store in Hanamenu, near Atuona, to serve the bare handful of unexterminated tribesmen there, the people imitated him in everything, his clothes, his gestures, his least-studied actions. "I was the only white.
I want to see the breadline, and the panhandlers, and the bums in Union Square. I want a bellyful of the happy dust the old town hands out the whole dope and all there is of it! My God! I want everything I haven't got!" He looked at me, wildly. He was trembling violently, and sweat poured down his face.
It seemed brutal to be wading into the bill of fare with poor old Bicky headed for the breadline. When I got back old Chiswick had gone to bed, but Bicky was there, hunched up in an arm-chair, brooding pretty tensely, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth and a more or less glassy stare in his eyes.
When he was left without a job, he managed to exist as long as he had enough to pay for a chop-house meal. There came a day when he was stranded without a centimo and he resorted to the Maria Cristina barracks. For two or three days he had been taking up his position among the beggars of the breadline, when once he caught sight of Roberto entering the barracks.
Without the necessary money he even fears loss of a respectable funeral and burial place in case of death. The urban wealthy keep close to more and more wonderful forms of luxury by money. The urban poor keep out of the breadline by money. The middle-class know that with a little more money they may expect to join the first class and with a little less they may be forced into the second.
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