This naturally brought a pang he might have anticipated. He had a sudden powerful hankering for the old life. That at least was man-size--his job had been man's work. He looked back at those fruitful laborious days, with their rich interest and absorbing details, their human companionships, and had an almost irrepressible desire to rush out, take the elevated train, go down East Eighty-first Street, ascend the elevator, ring the bell, and enter his dominion of trembling, thundering presses. He could smell the old smells, he could see the presses and the men, he could hear the noise. That was where he belonged. Voluntarily he had exiled himself from happiness and use. He wanted to go back--wanted it hard, almost groaned with homesickness. Such struggles are death throes or birth throes. They are as real as two men wrestling. Joe could sit still no longer, could mask no longer the combat within him. So he rose hastily and went out and wandered about the shabby, unfriendly neighborhood. He had a mad desire, almost realized, to take the car straight to Eighty-first Street, and only the thought of Marty Briggs in actual possession held him back. Finally he went back and took lunch, and again tried the vain task of pretending to work. It was three o'clock when he surrendered. He strode in to his mother. "Mother," he said, "isn't there something we can do together?" "In what way?" "Any way. I've been idling all day and I'm half dead." He laughed strangely. "I believe I'm getting nerves, mother." "Nerves!" She looked at him sharply. "What is it, Joe?" "Oh! It's in-betweenness." "I see." She smiled. "Well, there's some shopping to do--" "Thank Heaven!" So they went out together and took the Sixth Avenue car to Thirty-fourth Street. Their shopping took them to Fifth Avenue, and then, later, up Broadway to Forty-second Street. It was a different New York they saw--in fact, the New York best known to the stranger. The gorgeous palaces of trade glittered and sparkled, shimmered and flashed, with jewels and silver, with silks and knick-knacks. The immense and rich plenty of earth, the products of factories and mills, were lavishly poured here, gathered in isles, about which a swarming sea of well-dressed women pushed and crowded. The high ceilings were hung with glowing moons of light; the atmosphere was magic with confused talk, shuffling footsteps, and all the hum and stir of a human hive. Up and down Fifth Avenue swept a black thick stream of motors and carriages in which women and men lounged and stared. The great hotels sucked in and poured out tides of jeweled and lace-wrapped creatures, and in the lighted interiors of restaurants were rouged cheeks and kindled eyes. As Joe and his mother reached Forty-second Street, that whirlpool of theaters released its matinee crowds, a flood of youth, beauty, brightness, and luxury.