uted with extreme loudness; and then
"_Tausendonfer!_" or something like it in German.

The young man tried to draw him away.

"I vill not go," he said angrily, "else I shall told her."

He made a bass drum of Miss Martha's counter.

"You haf shpoilt me," he cried, his blue eyes blazing behind his
spectacles. "I vill tell you. You vas von _meddingsome old cat!_"

Miss Martha leaned weakly against the shelves and laid one hand on her
blue-dotted silk waist. The young man took the other by the collar.

"Come on," he said, "you've said enough." He dragged the angry one out
at the door to the sidewalk, and then came back.

"Guess you ought to be told, ma'am," he said, "what the row is about.
That's Blumberger. He's an architectural draftsman. I work in the same
office with him.

"He's been working hard for three months drawing a plan for a new
city hall. It was a prize competition. He finished inking the lines
yesterday. You know, a draftsman always makes his drawing in pencil
first. When it's done he rubs out the pencil lines with handfuls of
stale bread crumbs. That's better than India rubber.

"Blumberger's been buying the bread here. Well, to-day--well, you
know, ma'am, that butter isn't--well, Blumberger's plan isn't good for
anything now except to cut up into railroad sandwiches."

Miss Martha went into the back room. She took off the blue-dotted silk
waist and put on the old brown serge she used to wear. Then she poured
the quince seed and borax mixture out of the window into the ash can.

IV

THE PRIDE OF THE CITIES

Said Mr. Kipling, "The cities are full of pride, challenging each to
each." Even so.

New York was empty. Two hundred thousand of its people were away
for the summer. Three million eight hundred thousand remained as
caretakers and to pay the bills of the absentees. But the two hundred
thousand are an expensive lot.

The New Yorker sat at a roof-garden table, ingesting solace through a
straw. His panama lay upon a chair. The July audience was scattered
among vacant seats as widely as outfielders when the champion batter
steps to the plate. Vaudeville happened at intervals. The breeze
was cool from the bay; around and above--everywhere except on the
stage--were stars. Glimpses were to be had of waiters, always
disappearing, like startled chamois. Prudent visitors who had ordered
refreshments by 'phone in the morning were now being served. The New
Yorker was aware of certain draw