e. He assured her this would be a good third act when it was
worked up. No use working it up. She knew now she would never like it.
Jarvis rose.

"I will submit the new third act to-morrow. Have you any suggestions you
wish to incorporate?"

"Oh, no. If I could write plays, I would not be acting them. It's easier
and more lucrative to write."

"I don't find it easy enough to be a bore," replied Jarvis. "I will be
here at eleven to-morrow."

"Make it three."

"Very well, three."

"Some of the pinches," he muttered as he climbed the bus to go back to
his hot hall bedroom, his mind a blank, and only twenty-five hours in
which to work out a new third act.

He stripped for action and worked until midnight. Then he foraged on
Fourth Avenue for food at an all-night cafe patronized by car-men,
chauffeurs, and messenger boys. He ate ravenously. Afterward he swung
downward to Madison Square Park, to stretch his tired body. The stars
were very bright, but a warm wind crowded people on to the streets. A
restless, aimless crowd of strollers! Several of them spoke to Jarvis.
Many of them marked him. But he paid no attention to individuals. His
mind was full of the whole picture. Mile after mile of narrow streets
between blocks of stone and brick and wood. Thousands of people tramping
the miles like so many animals driven from the jungle by fire or flood.
This men called civilization--this City of Stone Blocks! How far was it
from the jungle? Hunger, thirst, lust, jealousy, anger, courage, and
cowardice--these were the passions of both fastnesses. How far was Man
from his blood brother, the Wolf?

[Illustration: "SOFTLINGS! POOR SOFTLINGS!" JARVIS MUTTERED, BAMBI'S
WORDS COMING BACK TO HIM.]

He reached the green square, and started to cross it. On every bench,
crowded together, huddled the sleepers. He walked slowly, and looked at
them closely. Most of them were old--old men and old women--warped out
of all semblance to human beings, their hideous faces and crooked bodies
more awful in the abandon of sleep. Some young ones there were, too: a
thin boy with a cough; a tired girl of the streets, snatching a moment
of sleep before she went about her trade. It was like some
fantastic dream.

"Softlings! Poor softlings!" Jarvis muttered, Bambi's words coming back
to him. The tawdry little girl stirred, saw him, spoke to him, her hand
upon his arm.

"Go get a decent bed, child," he said, giving her some money.

Her eyes sho