Raggles summoned his courage and sought alms from the populace.  Unheeding, regardless, they passed on without the wink of an eyelash to testify that they were conscious of his existence.  And then he said to himself that this fair but pitiless city of Manhattan was without a soul; that its inhabitants were manikins moved by wires and springs, and that he was alone in a great wilderness.

Raggles started to cross the street.  There was a blast, a roar, a hissing and a crash as something struck him and hurled him over and over six yards from where he had been.  As he was coming down like the stick of a rocket the earth and all the cities thereof turned to a fractured dream.

Raggles opened his eyes.  First an odor made itself known to him—­an odor of the earliest spring flowers of Paradise.  And then a hand soft as a falling petal touched his brow.  Bending over him was the woman clothed like the princess of old, with blue eyes, now soft and humid with human sympathy.  Under his head on the pavement were silks and furs.  With Raggles’s hat in his hand and with his face pinker than ever from a vehement burst of oratory against reckless driving, stood the elderly gentleman who personified the city’s wealth and ripeness.  From a nearby cafe hurried the by-product with the vast jowl and baby complexion, bearing a glass full of a crimson fluid that suggested delightful possibilities.

“Drink dis, sport,” said the by-product, holding the glass to Raggles’s lips.

Hundreds of people huddled around in a moment, their faces wearing the deepest concern.  Two flattering and gorgeous policemen got into the circle and pressed back the overplus of Samaritans.  An old lady in a black shawl spoke loudly of camphor; a newsboy slipped one of his papers beneath Raggles’s elbow, where it lay on the muddy pavement.  A brisk young man with a notebook was asking for names.

A bell clanged importantly, and the ambulance cleaned a lane through the crowd.  A cool surgeon slipped into the midst of affairs.

“How do you feel, old man?” asked the surgeon, stooping easily to his task.  The princess of silks and satins wiped a red drop or two from Raggles’s brow with a fragrant cobweb.

“Me?” said Raggles, with a seraphic smile, “I feel fine.”

He had found the heart of his new city.

In three days they let him leave his cot for the convalescent ward in the hospital.  He had been in there an hour when the attendants heard sounds of conflict.  Upon investigation they found that Raggles had assaulted and damaged a brother convalescent—­a glowering transient whom a freight train collision had sent in to be patched up.

“What’s all this about?” inquired the head nurse.

“He was runnin’ down me town,” said Raggles.

“What town?” asked the nurse.

“Noo York,” said Raggles.

VANITY AND SOME SABLES