The roadway is a mass of tiny, licking, orange-coloured flames. The devils take long rakes, and the little flames leap and flicker and fall over and between the prongs like fluid. Red-hot wheeled trolleys, with a blasting flame beneath them are dragged backwards and forwards over the roadway, heating it, licking at it, and roaring like furnaces. The wind blows the flames this way and that way, lighting up the faces of the men, glittering on their belt buckles and making their bare arms fire colour. The ghosts stand with white faces watching.
More ghosts come.
One little ghost has a peaked cap and an urgent message in a patent leather pouch. He stays a long time. Here is a man entirely obscured by fog standing on the kerb making a tin monkey run up and down a piece of twine. Fower,' he says. Four tin monkeys sold in a thick fog.