His face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head, his hair was wildly rumpled.  He clinched his two fists and shook them ferociously at Miss Martha. At Miss Martha.

“Dummkopf!” he shouted with extreme loudness; and then “Tausendonfer!” or something like it in German.

The young man tried to draw him away.

“I vill not go,” he said angrily, “else I shall told her.”

He made a bass drum of Miss Martha’s counter.

“You haf shpoilt me,” he cried, his blue eyes blazing behind his spectacles.  “I vill tell you.  You vas von meddingsome old cat!”

Miss Martha leaned weakly against the shelves and laid one hand on her blue-dotted silk waist.  The young man took the other by the collar.

“Come on,” he said, “you’ve said enough.”  He dragged the angry one out at the door to the sidewalk, and then came back.

“Guess you ought to be told, ma’am,” he said, “what the row is about.  That’s Blumberger.  He’s an architectural draftsman.  I work in the same office with him.

“He’s been working hard for three months drawing a plan for a new city hall.  It was a prize competition.  He finished inking the lines yesterday.  You know, a draftsman always makes his drawing in pencil first.  When it’s done he rubs out the pencil lines with handfuls of stale bread crumbs.  That’s better than India rubber.

“Blumberger’s been buying the bread here.  Well, to-day—­well, you know, ma’am, that butter isn’t—­well, Blumberger’s plan isn’t good for anything now except to cut up into railroad sandwiches.”

Miss Martha went into the back room.  She took off the blue-dotted silk waist and put on the old brown serge she used to wear.  Then she poured the quince seed and borax mixture out of the window into the ash can.

IV

THE PRIDE OF THE CITIES

Said Mr. Kipling, “The cities are full of pride, challenging each to each.”  Even so.

New York was empty.  Two hundred thousand of its people were away for the summer.  Three million eight hundred thousand remained as caretakers and to pay the bills of the absentees.  But the two hundred thousand are an expensive lot.

The New Yorker sat at a roof-garden table, ingesting solace through a straw.  His panama lay upon a chair.  The July audience was scattered among vacant seats as widely as outfielders when the champion batter steps to the plate.  Vaudeville happened at intervals.  The breeze was cool from the bay; around and above—­everywhere except on the stage—­were stars.  Glimpses were to be had of waiters, always disappearing, like startled chamois.  Prudent visitors who had ordered refreshments by ’phone in the morning were now being served.  The New Yorker was aware of certain drawbacks to his comfort, but content beamed softly from his rimless eyeglasses.  His family was out of town.  The drinks were warm; the ballet was suffering from lack of both tune and talcum—­but his family would not return until September.