She snatched off my hat, threw it high up in the air, and, laughing loudly, ran away, dropping her cap on the grass. I picked it up, and pursued her. She was a swift runner, and we raced a long while across the wide lawn before I caught her. In the dim bluish light she stood at my side, a savage figure with stormy cascades of hair over her face and shoulders, with flashing eyes, open mouth, dilating nostrils. In my professional delight (I never lose my self-consciousness) I seized her by the waist and lifted her up above me. She waved her good arms and shrieked in joy, tossing her Medusa-head, arching her tense chest, quivering in ecstacy. “Hey, there. Cut that out!” A husky policeman on a motorcycle approached us. He dismounted, looked at us (I was still holding her in the air), and burst into a hoarse guffaw. “Well, I’ll be.... Beat it now. It’s improper.” I handed her the mussed white cap. She twisted it with her fingers, and her lips muttered somnolently: “And at six thirty in the morning I must be on duty....” III. Will to Power At a crossing line on a Saturday night about 2 A. M. Tired men, women, children, families, couples, waiting for a street car. Some lean towards the wall, some sit on the sidewalk, on the garbage-box, on the curb. Dull silence. The June night rolls on indifferently. Suddenly the calm is disturbed by violent screams and oaths. A woman is hurled out by invisible hands from the corner-hotel. She crosses the street towards the waiting crowd, staggers, waves her big handbag, and swears hideously. No response. The ennui on the faces remains unstirred. The coarse solo of the prostitute, who ejaculates fantastically ugly verbs, nouns, adjectives, bespatters the velvet night. A baggy figure in a battered derby rises from the sidewalk, and hesitatingly accosts the woman. “You stop this noise....” Then threateningly: “Want to take a ride?” Her foul flux interrupted, the woman thrusts her red face into the man’s, and hisses half coquettishly, half contemptuously: “A ride? With you, sweetheart? Sure!” He grabs her by the shoulder. His face grows pale. “Come on, now. Move on, I tell you!” The woman shrieks and struggles. “Let go! Look what he is doing to me! Who are you? You are not a detective.... Let go!” The crowd does not stir. Some one yawns desperately. A little boy whimpers, and clings to his dozing mother. The man drags his shrieking victim. He pulls out a chain of keys, and swings it triumphantly. The woman screams and hits her assailant on the face with her heavy handbag. New figures appear from the adjoining streets. A voice is heard: “Maybe he is not a detective.... Hey, where’s your star?” The man’s pale face twitches convulsively. The woman feels encouraged, strikes him short, rapid blows, and shouts wildly: “He is not a detective! Look what he is doing to me!”