“Poor bread--when France can teach him what bread really is--poorly prepared food, making candy eaters of an entire people--an alimentary viciousness unknown where food is properly cooked and properly eaten. “A _poor_ people, you New Yorkers, spite of your money--poorly educated, bodily and mentally; poor in physique; poor sportsmen who tolerate professionalism as your popular sport; too poor in spirit to submit to universal service for the common weal. “So poor that your laws are made for you by the most recently settled and most ignorant section of the nation. “The ‘Centre of Population,’ with its incubus of half educated women, prescribes your bodily and your moral menu. And you become a metropolis of moonshiners. “What are you, Manhattan? Ruins already, alas, to build upon--the Yankee Ninevah trodden by an ass less wild. “And yet the endless caravans continue. Still, to New York come all things, all people. And, alas, Youth comes too, and all afire to see and learn and achieve. High ideals, high hopes, vigour, courage, face to face with the Great American Ass enthroned amid the débris. “Youth floundering in the dump-heap bares a clean sword to hew its way to beauty. And strikes a shower of ashes. There is no sympathy; no audience for beauty in New York. “Dull eyes look on, dull minds weary. There is official inquiry as to the purpose of ‘these here art artists.’ The waiter, taxi-driver, janitor, gambler of yesterday are the arbiters of Art on Broadway to-day. “It is not a sword that Youth needs in New York; it is a gas-mask. And, somewhere, Destiny is already mixing mortar and Fate is baking bricks for that coming temple that shall stand upon the futile ruins where, some day, shall be disinterred the fossil bones of the Great American Ass.” * * * * * Annan sent it to Coltfoot with a note: “This is a crazy article. You don’t have to use it.” Coltfoot used it. A few people laughed, a few protested, the Middle West was angry, and the owners of the _Planet_ told Coltfoot to be more careful. But the majority of New Yorkers liked the article, and grinned, having been overfed on “our fair city” stuff. Besides, the tendency of the times was toward the unpleasant. Stilton and caviar are acquired tastes. * * * * * That night Annan made himself some black coffee and began his first novel, “The Cloud.” About three o’clock in the morning he tore up what he had written and smoked another pipe. “Oh, the rotten start!” he yawned, conscious that inwardly he was all a-tremble with creative power,--like a boiler that taxes its safety valve. The young vigour in him laughed its menace. All the insolent certainty of youth was in his gesture as he flung the torn manuscript into the fireplace. That night he embarked upon the sea of dreams. He seldom dreamed. But this night tall clouds loomed in his sleep and an ocean rolled away. His ship plunged on, always on, he at the helm.