One cold night in 1931, his shabby clothing buttoned tightly about his short, diabetic body, a derelict named Driscoll lay on the floor of a boxcar in Seattle's railroad yards. For days he had hunted work. Weary, he had turned to bread lines, soup kitchens, listened to soap-box orators on corners of the Skidroad.* Deep into his dulled consciousness sank the speakers' catchphrases, their shouts of plenty for everyone, taunts at Big Business, cries that Capitalists were to blame for Derelict Driscoll's wrinkled belly.
As he lay hunched in the drafty boxcar...
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