Here, near the corner of the Avenue, he found Hy Lowe, leaning against the building, weeping, while four taxi chauffeurs and two victoria drivers stood by. It occurred to Peter that it might, be best, after all, to give up brooding over his own troubles and take the boy home. He could bundle him into a taxi. And once at the old apartment building in the Square, John the night man would help carry him up. It would be rather decent, for that matter, to pay for the taxi just as if it was a matter of course and never mention it to Hy. Of course, however, if Hy were to remember the occurrence--A fist landed in Peter's face--not a hard fist, merely a limp, folded-over hand. Peter brushed it aside. It was the fist of Hy Lowe. Hy lurched at him now, caught his shoulders, tried to shake him. He was saying things in a rapidly rising voice. After a moment of ineffectual wrestling, Peter began to catch what these things were: “Call yourself frien'--take bread outa man's mouth! Oh, I know. No good tryin' lie to me--tellin' me Sumner Smith don' know what he's talkin'! Where's my raise? You jes' tell me--where's my raise? Ol' Walrus gone--croaked--where's my raise?” Peter propped him against the building and walked swiftly around the corner. There he stopped; dodged behind a tree. Sue and the Worm were running down tire wide front steps. She leaped into the first taxi. The Worm stood, one foot on the step, hand on door, and called. One of Hy's audience hurried around, brushing past Peter, receiving his instructions as he cranked the engine and leaped to his seat. The door slammed. They were gone. Peter was sure that something snapped in his brain. It was probably a lesion, he thought. He strode blindly, madly, up the Avenue, crowding past the other pedestrians, bumping into one man and rushing on without a word. Suddenly--this was a little farther up the Avenue--Peter stopped short, caught his breath, struggled with emotions that even he would have thought mixed. He even turned and walked back a short way. For across the street, back in the shadow of the corner building, his eyes made out the figure of a girl; and he knew that figure, knew the slight droop of the shoulders and the prise of the head. She had seen him, of course. Yes, this was Tenth Street! With swift presence of mind he stooped and went through the motion of picking up something from the sidewalk. This covered his brief retreat. He advanced now. She hung back in the shadow of the building. Her dark pretty face was clouded with anger, her breast rose and fell quickly with her breathing. She would not look at him. He took her arm--her softly rounded arm--in his hand. She wrenched it away. “Oh, come, Maria, dear,” he murmured rather weakly. “I'm sorry I kept you waiting.” She confronted him now. There was passion in her big eyes. Her voice was not under control. “Why don't you tell the truth?” she broke out. “You think you can do anything with me--play with me, hurt me.”