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White, Stewart Edward, 1873-1946

"The Sign at Six"

The city transported him, warmed him,
fed him, amused him, protected him. He had nothing to do with it in any
way; he didn't even know how it was done. Deprived of his push-buttons, he
was as helpless as a baby. Beyond the little stunt he did in his office or
his store, and beyond the ability to cross a crowded street, he was no
good. He not only didn't know how to do things, but he was rapidly losing,
through disuse, the power to learn how to do things. The modern city
dweller, bred, born, brought up on this island, is about as helpless and
useless a man, considered as a four-square, self-reliant individual, as
you can find on the broad expanse of the globe. I've got no use for a man
who can't take care of himself, who's got to have somebody else to do it
for him, whenever something to which he hasn't been accustomed rises up in
front of him!"
His eye was fixed somberly on the city stretching away into the haze of
the autumn day.
"You blame me for letting this thing run!" he went on. "Of course it
tickles me to death to see Eldridge flounder; but that isn't all. This is
the best thing that could happen to them out there! I'm just patriotic
enough to wish them more of it. It's good medicine! At last every man jack
of them is up against something he's got to decide for himself. The police
are useless; the fire department is useless; the railroads and street-cars
are crippled.


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