I watched this business for quite a while--the bands going by behind me--the flags--the guns--and the sweating people standing all along the curb for miles of Fifth Avenue. Finally, a fair-haired girl of about sixteen came innocently into the open place, looked about to find the reason for it, saw none, and began to cross. The sergeant slipped swiftly behind her. Quickly, with his stick, he lifted the little pink cotton of her skirt, bent as he walked, with ogling pool-room pantomine, took aim, and thrust. This girl did not leap but stood transfixed on the point of the electric stick. A great grin broke on the sergeant's face and he thrust, now--again and again. Her head turned in slow horror. Whatever fantasy had seized her brain was shattered by the sight of the lewd man jabbing at her. The crowd roared like all the pottery on earth falling over a precipice. A look of the most pitiful terror came over her. At last, she found the nerves and muscles for running and escaped into the yapping multitude. The sergeant straightened up. When he straightened, I stepped out and hit him on the mouth as hard as I could. The approving roar stopped as if a noose had tightened on its throat. The sergeant stared at me with addled menace. Blood trickled from between his lips, where I had felt his teeth loosen. Then one of his buddies hit me from the side. My nose blazed with pain. The hollow lost its shape. Different--yet not much different yells were raised. Someone cracked the back of my head. I saw a place between two fat men, lunged at it, looked back. The sergeant was slowly sitting down, fumbling for his handkerchief. Blows fell on me. A man in a navy uniform grabbed my arm. I hit him and he let go. The crowd closed around me. When, after long minutes of pushing and weaving, I emerged on a side street, my nose was bleeding. I wiped it and went, somewhat shakily, to the hotel. The nosebleed stopped in a few minutes. I turned on my radio and found a cello solo amongst the predinner music. Ave Maria, as a matter of fact. 9 Tom Alden--Tom-the-doctor--had been thinking about me, off and on, for more than thirty hours, now. He is the kind of person whose thoughts give birth more to inquiry than opinion.