That would be the very worst thing that
could happen. It would mean "the Island" or some other such place, for
he could not have paid a fine.

It occurred to him, therefore, that it would be wiser to get down at
One Hundred and Tenth street and walk over to Nellie's. The policemen
were not so thick nor so bothersome up there, he figured, and it was a
rather expensive article he was carrying; one never got them back from
the police, even if the fine were paid.

Footsore, weary, and chilled to the bone, he at length came to the
apartment building wherein dwelt Nellie Duluth. In these last few
weeks he had developed a habit of thinking of her as Nellie Duluth, a
person quite separate and detached from himself. He had come to regard
himself as so far removed from Nellie Duluth that it was quite
impossible for him to think of her as Mrs.--Mrs.--he had to rack his
brain for the name, the connection was so remote.

He had walked miles--many devious and lengthening miles--before
finally coming to the end of his journey. Once he came near asking a
policeman to direct him to Eighty-ninth Street, but the sudden
recollection of the thing he carried stopped him in time. That and the
discovery of a sign on a post which frostily informed him that he was
then in the very street he sought.

It should go without the saying that he hesitated a long time before
entering the building. Perhaps it would be better after all to write
to her. Somewhat sensibly he argued that a letter would reach her,
while it was more than likely he would fall short of a similar
achievement. She couldn't deny Uncle Sam, but she could slam the door
in her husband's face. Yes, he concluded, a letter was the thing.
Having come to this half-hearted decision, he proceeded to argue
himself out of it. Suppose that she received the letter, did it follow
that she would reply to it? He might enclose a stamp and all that sort
of thing, but he knew Nellie; she wouldn't answer a letter--at least,
not that kind of letter. She would laugh at it, and perhaps show it to
her friends, who also would be vastly amused. He remembered some of
them as he saw them in the cafe that day; they were given to
uproarious laughter. No, he concluded, a letter was not the thing. He
must see her. He must have it out with her, face to face.

So he went up in the elevator to the eleventh floor, which was the top
one, got out and walked down to the sixth, where she lived. Her name
was on the