say in loud whispers, "There goes Riley." That thing elsewhere gets on his nerves. It's fine to be famous, but it's frightful to be forever on parade as a superhuman. It's like a man wearing a dress suit every day and not daring to bend for fear his smooth shiny shirt front might crack. See? Riley does.
In Lockerbie Street he is one of the folks. His life is linked with others by daily accustomed association. He can saunter into Trustin
"Out in Greenfield . . . he owns a house . . . the simple old frame house
in yellow and white that he has immortalized in his verse."
Igoe's house — yes, that's the name, Trustin — without knocking at the door, and wander through the hall until he finds the family in the dining-room at supper. Then he says, "Say, Trustin, got any tobacco? I'm just out. Got to have some." On the front porch later, he may sit right down with his back against a post: "O, no, don't bother. I don't want a chair. But, O, this tobacco is a comfort! Do you know, when I'm dead, Trustin, I want you to see to it personally that beside me in the tomb they put a small table and on it a pitcher of water, a set of Dickens and a little tobacco.
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