"I ought to yell," said my father dolefully. "I ought to make a big noise like other peddlers, but it makes my throat sore. Anyway, I’m ashamed of yelling, it makes me feel like a fool. "
I had eaten one of his bananas. My sick conscience told me that I ought to pay for it somehow. I must remain here and help my father.
"I’ll yell for you, pop," I volunteered.
"Arch, no," he said, "go home; you have worked enough today. Just tell momma I’ll be late."
But I yelled and yelled. My father, standing by, spoke occasional words of praise, and said I was a wonderful yeller. Nobody else paid attention. The workers drifted past us wearily, endlessly; a defeated army wrapped in dreams of home. Elevated trains crashed; the Cooper Union clock burned above us; the sky grew black, the wind poured, the slush burned through our shoes. There were thousands of strange, silent figures pouring over the sidewalks in snow. None of them stopped to buy bananas. I yelled and yelled, nobody listened.