I was merely nauseated. I wanted to get out into the open air, and I was glad to see that the elevator cage stood there waiting for me. And I was also glad that there was no one in it except a weasel-faced little runt of an old man in rusty black, for cool as I had kept myself in that smoky office, I found a foolish gush of tears streaking the talcum off my cheeks as I made my way out to the street. And I never did care to do my crying before strangers.
I walked up Broadway once more, with no sense of time or place or direction. I only knew that I was glad to mix with the sidewalk crowds, the same as a slum boy with prickly-heat must be glad to take a header off an East Side wharf-end. I had been hurt, and hurt without understanding why. It bewildered me. I wanted to be alone, to think things out. And like any other animal on two legs or four, when it gets hurt, I found myself swayed by an instinct to make for the tall timber, to go in hiding. Without being quite conscious of it I directed my steps toward Central Park. There I wandered on until I found a leafy solitude and a bench which a gray squirrel vacated as I took possession. And I sat back on that bench, deep in thought, and let my battered spirit lick its wounds.
