“It’s the life, mother!  It’s the life!”

* * * * *

His ruddy colour began to fade.  He took to haunting department store kitchenware sections.  He would come home with a new kind of cream whipper, or a patent device for the bathroom.  He would tinker happily with this, driving a nail, adjusting a screw.  At such times he was even known to begin to whistle some scrap of a doleful tune such as he used to hum.  But he would change, quickly, into something lively.  The price of butter, eggs, milk, cream, and the like horrified his Wisconsin cold-storage sensibilities.  He used often to go down to Fulton Market before daylight and walk about among the stalls and shops, piled with tons of food of all kinds.  He would talk to the marketmen, and the buyers and grocers, and come away feeling almost happy for a time.

Then, one day, with a sort of shock, he remembered a farmer he had known back home in Winnebago.  He knew the farmers for miles around, naturally, in his business.  This man had been a steady butter-and-egg acquaintance, one of the wealthy farmers in that prosperous Wisconsin farming community.  For his family’s sake he had moved into town, a ruddy, rufous-bearded, clumping fellow, intelligent, kindly.  They had sold the farm with a fine profit and had taken a box-like house on Franklin Street.  He had nothing to do but enjoy himself.  You saw him out on the porch early, very early summer mornings.

You saw him ambling about the yard, poking at a weed here, a plant there.  A terrible loneliness was upon him; a loneliness for the soil he had deserted.  And slowly, resistlessly, the soil pulled at him with its black strength and its green tendrils down, down, until he ceased to struggle and lay there clasped gently to her breast, the mistress he had thought to desert and who had him again at last, and forever.

“I don’t know what ailed him,” his widow had said, weeping.  “He just seemed to kind of pine away.”

* * * * *

It was one morning in April—­one soft, golden April morning—­when this memory had struck Hosey Brewster.  He had been down at Fulton Market.  Something about the place—­the dewy fresh vegetables, the crates of eggs, the butter, the cheese—­had brought such a surge of homesickness over him as to amount to an actual nausea.  Riding uptown in the Subway he had caught a glimpse of himself in a slot-machine mirror.  His face was pale and somehow shrunken.  He looked at his hands.  The skin hung loose where the little pads of fat had plumped them out.

“Gosh!” he said.  “Gosh, I—­”

He thought, then, of the red-faced farmer who used to come clumping into the cold-storage warehouse in his big boots and his buffalo coat.  A great fear swept over him and left him weak and sick.

The chill grandeur of the studio-building foyer stabbed him.  The glittering lift made him dizzy, somehow, this morning.  He shouldn’t have gone out without some breakfast perhaps.  He walked down the flagged corridor softly; turned the key ever so cautiously.  She might still be sleeping.  He turned the knob gently, gently; tiptoed in and, turning, fell over a heavy wooden object that lay directly in his path in the dim little hall.