him. His audacity with women amazed me, for he never
passed one of the "lady clerks" without some form of caress, which they
resented but invariably laughed at. One day he imparted to me his code of
morality: he never made love to another man's wife, so he assured me, if
he knew the man! The secret of life he had discovered in laughter, and by
laughter he sold quantities of Cousin Robert's groceries.

Mr. Bowles boasted of a catholic acquaintance in all the cities of his
district, but before venturing forth to conquer these he had learned his
own city by heart. My Cousin Robert was not aware of the fact that Mr.
Bowles "showed" the town to certain customers. He even desired to show it
to me, but an epicurean strain in my nature held me back. Johnny Hedges
went with him occasionally, and Henry Schneider, the bill clerk, and I
listened eagerly to their experiences, afterwards confiding them to
Tom....

There were times when, driven by an overwhelming curiosity, I ventured
into certain strange streets, alone, shivering with cold and excitement,
gripped by a fascination I did not comprehend, my eyes now averted, now
irresistibly raised toward the white streaks of light that outlined the
windows of dark houses....

One winter evening as I was going home, I encountered at the mail-box a
young woman who shot at me a queer, twisted smile. I stood still, as
though stunned, looking after her, and when halfway across the slushy
street she turned and smiled again. Prodigiously excited, I followed her,
fearful that I might be seen by someone who knew me, nor was it until she
reached an unfamiliar street that I ventured to overtake her. She
confounded me by facing me.

"Get out!" she cried fiercely.

I halted in my tracks, overwhelmed with shame. But she continued to
regard me by the light of the street lamp.

"You didn't want to be seen with me on Second Street, did you? You're one
of those sneaking swells."

The shock of this sudden onslaught was tremendous. I stood frozen to the
spot, trembling, convicted, for I knew that her accusation was just; I
had wounded her, and I had a desire to make amends.

"I'm sorry," I faltered. "I didn't mean--to offend you. And you smiled--"
I got no farther. She began to laugh, and so loudly that I glanced
anxiously about. I would have fled, but something still held me,
something that belied the harshness of her laugh.

"You're just a kid," she told me. "Say, you get along home, and tell