and ordinary; but when I saw him standing so
perfectly still I knew somehow that he was not of this world. And the
stars behind his head were larger and fiercer than ought to be endured
by the eyes of men.

"'If you are a kind angel,' I said, 'or a wise devil, or have anything
in common with mankind, tell me what is this street possessed of
devils.'

"After a long silence he said, 'What do you say that it is?'

"'It is Bumpton Street, of course,' I snapped. 'It goes to Oldgate
Station.'

"'Yes,' he admitted gravely; 'it goes there sometimes. Just now,
however, it is going to heaven.'

"'To heaven?' I said. 'Why?'

"'It is going to heaven for justice,' he replied. 'You must have treated
it badly. Remember always that there is one thing that cannot be endured
by anybody or anything. That one unendurable thing is to be overworked
and also neglected. For instance, you can overwork women--everybody
does. But you can't neglect women--I defy you to. At the same time, you
can neglect tramps and gypsies and all the apparent refuse of the State
so long as you do not overwork it. But no beast of the field, no horse,
no dog can endure long to be asked to do more than his work and yet have
less than his honour. It is the same with streets. You have worked this
street to death, and yet you have never remembered its existence. If
you had a healthy democracy, even of pagans, they would have hung this
street with garlands and given it the name of a god. Then it would have
gone quietly. But at last the street has grown tired of your tireless
insolence; and it is bucking and rearing its head to heaven. Have you
never sat on a bucking horse?'

"I looked at the long grey street, and for a moment it seemed to me to
be exactly like the long grey neck of a horse flung up to heaven. But
in a moment my sanity returned, and I said, 'But this is all nonsense.
Streets go to the place they have to go. A street must always go to its
end.'

"'Why do you think so of a street?' he asked, standing very still.

"'Because I have always seen it do the same thing,' I replied, in
reasonable anger. 'Day after day, year after year, it has always gone to
Oldgate Station; day after...'

"I stopped, for he had flung up his head with the fury of the road in
revolt.

"'And you?' he cried terribly. 'What do you think the road thinks of
you? Does the road think you are alive? Are you alive? Day after day,
year after year, you have gone to Oldgate Statio