rst thing I know, he'd got it open
to-day and was crawling out almost.' Say, can you beat that for a kid
sixteen months----"

Nick had finished shaving, had donned his clean white soft shirt. His
soft collar fitted to a miracle about his strong throat. Nick's
sartorial effects were a triumph--on forty a week. "Say, can't you talk
about nothing but that kid of yours? I bet he's a bum specimen at that.
Runt, like his pa."

Elmer flung down his newspaper in honest indignation as Nick had
wickedly meant he should. "Is that so! Why, we was wrastling round--me
and him, see--last night on the floor, and what does he do, he raises
his mitt and hands me a wallop in the stomick it like to knock the wind
out of me. That's all. Sixteen months----"

"Yeh. I suppose this time next year he'll be boxing for money."

Elmer resumed his paper. "What do _you_ know." His tone mingled pity
with contempt.

Nick took a last critical survey of the cracked mirror's reflection and
found it good. "Nothing, only this: you make me sick with your kids and
your missus and your place. Say, don't you never have no fun?"

"Fun! Why, say, last Sunday we was out to the beach, and the kid swum
out first thing you know----"

"Oh, shut up!" He was dressed now. He slapped his pockets. Harmonica.
Cigarettes. Matches. Money. He was off, his long-visored cloth cap
pulled jauntily over his eyes.

Elmer, bearing no rancour, flung a last idle query: "Where you going?"

"How should I know? Just bumming around. Bus is outa commission, and I'm
outa luck."

He clattered down the stairs, whistling.

Next door for a shine at the Greek bootblack's. Enthroned on the dais, a
minion at his feet, he was momentarily monarchial. How's the boy? Good?
Same here. Down, his brief reign ended. Out into the bright noon-day
glare of Fifty-third Street.

A fried-egg sandwich. Two blocks down and into the white-tiled
lunchroom. He took his place in the row perched on stools in front of
the white slab, his feet on the railing, his elbows on the counter. Four
white-aproned vestals with blotchy skins performed rites over the
steaming nickel urns, slid dishes deftly along the slick surface of the
white slab, mopped up moisture with a sly grey rag. No nonsense about
them. This was the rush hour. Hungry men from the shops and offices and
garages of the district were bent on food (not badinage). They ate
silently, making a dull business of it. Coffee? What kinda pie do you
want?