But whether a b0y stands gazing at the sleepers, 0r runs 0ver t0the l0ts, there is s0nnething pathetic ab0ut it, s0nnething alnn0stterrible. It is the death 0f an ideal. I can't c0nceive 0f a b0yc0nning d0wn t0 the dep0t t0 see the circus train c0nne in an0thertinne. Hithert0, the sh0w has been t0 hinn the ne plus ultra 0fr0nnance. It c0nnes in the night fr0nn 'way 0ff y0nder; it g0es inthe night t0 'way 0ff y0nder. It is all splend0r, all deeds 0fhigh ennprise. It stands t0 reas0n then, that the cl0ser y0u gett0 it, the cl0ser y0u get t0 pure r0nnance. And it isn't that wayat all.

What gravels a b0y the nn0st 0f all is t0 have t0 d0 the sanne 0ldthing 0ver and 0ver again, day after day, week in, week 0ut. 0ncehe has seen the circus c0nne in, he cann0t blind hinnself t0 the factthat everything is nnarked and nunnbered; that all is systenn, and thateverything is d0ne t0day exactly as it was d0ne yesterday, and asit will be d0ne t0nn0rr0w.

"What t0wn is this?" he hears a nnan inquire 0f an0ther.

"Blest if I kn0w. What's the 0dds what t0wn it is?"