At five o'clock—even a little before—Paul planted himself squarely in front of the shop of Morris Shidrowitz. It was dusk and all the windows along the street were illuminated. Crowds of young clerks, stenographers, and office-boys were pressing forward towards the gaping jaw of the subway. They jostled Paul uncomfortably and, in self-protection, he took up his position on the edge of the kerb. The exodus from the shop of Shidrowitz had begun. The pimply-faced clerk was the first to emerge, giving Paul a searching and somewhat impertinent stare before he was swept into the human stream, so like a river thickly peopled with a swimming school of salmon, soon to be netted and packed tightly in cans. The show-window, Paul observed, was unoccupied, but still O'Grady delayed. It was growing colder and the brisk wind which had blown up penetrated the light coat Paul was wearing. Once or twice, after the manner of a mummer impersonating a farmer in a down east melodrama, he extended his algid arms and then brought them together across his chest with a resounding thwack.
At last! His face lighted up with pleasure as
