portant
to do than go to the doughnut foundry on Park Row and try some of those
delectable combinations of foods they have there, such as sponge cake
with whipped cream and chocolate fudge. And in a few seconds we have
found ourself getting all stirred up and crying loudly to the artist
that we only wanted a once-over, as we had an important appointment. You
have to put a very heavy brake on your spirit in downtown New York or
you find yourself dashing about in a prickle of excitement, gloriously
happy just to be in a hurry, without particularly caring whither you are
hastening, or why.

[Illustration]

One of the odd things about being in a hurry is that it seems so
fiercely important when you yourself are the hurrier and so comically
ludicrous when it is someone else. We see our friend Artaxerxes
scorching up Church Street and we scream with laughter at him, because
we know perfectly well that there is absolutely not one of his affairs
important enough to cause him to buzz along like that. We look after him
with a sort of mild and affectionate pity for a deluded creature who
thinks that his concerns are of such glorious magnitude. And then, a few
hours later, we find ourself on a subway car with only ten minutes to
catch the train for Salamis at Atlantic Avenue. And what is our state of
mind? We stand, gritting our teeth (we are too excited to sit, even if
there were a seat) and holding our watch. The whole train, it seems to
us, is occupied by invalids, tottering souls and lumbago cripples, who
creep off at the stations as though five seconds made not the slightest
difference. We glare and fume and could gladly see them all maced in
sunder with battle-axes. Nothing, it seems to us, could soothe our
bitter hunger for haste but to have a brilliant Lexington Avenue express
draw up at the platform with not a soul in it. Out would step a polite
guard, looking at his watch. "You want to catch a train at 5:27?" he
asks. "Yes, sir, yes, sir; step aboard." All the other competitors are
beaten back with knotted thongs and we are ushered to a seat. The bells
go chiming in quick sequence up the length of the train and we are off
at top speed, flying wildly past massed platforms of indignant people.
We draw up at Atlantic Avenue, and the solitary passenger, somewhat
appeased, steps off. "Compliments of the Interborough, sir," says the
guard.

The commuter, urgently posting toward the 5:27, misses the finest
flavour of the cit