n we found him again the other day standing in front of a
chop house on Forty-fourth Street.

But one great addition to the delights of the Thirty-second Street
region is the new and shining white tunnel that leads one from the Penn
Station subway platform right into the heart of what used (we think) to
be called Greeley Square. It is so dazzling and candid in its new tiling
that it seems rather like a vast hospital corridor. One emerges through
the Hudson Tube station and perhaps sets one's course for a little
restaurant on Thirty-fifth Street which always holds first place in our
affection. It is somewhat declined from its former estate, for the upper
floors, where the violent orchestra was and the smiling little
dandruffian used to sing solos when the evening grew glorious, are now
rented to a feather and ostrich plume factory. But the old basement is
still there, much the same in essentials, by which we mean the pickled
beet appetizers, the minestrone soup, the delicious soft bread with its
brittle crust, and the thick slices of rather pale roast beef swimming
in thin, pinkish gravy. And the three old French waiters, hardened in
long experience of the frailties of mortality, smile to see a former
friend. One, grinning upon us rather bashfully, recalls the time when
there was a hilarious Oriental wedding celebrating in a private room
upstairs and two young men insisted on going in to dance with the bride.
He has forgiven various pranks, we can see, though he was wont to be
outraged at the time. "Getting very stout," he says, beaming down at us.
"You weigh a hundred pounds more than you used to." This is not merely
cruel; it is untrue. We refrain from retorting on the growth of his bald
spot.

CONFESSIONS OF A HUMAN GLOBULE

As a matter of fact, we find the evening subway jam very restful. Being
neatly rounded in contour, with just a gentle bulge around the
equatorial transit, we have devised a very satisfactory system. We make
for the most crowded car we can find, and having buffeted our way in, we
are perfectly serene. Once properly wedged, and provided no one in the
immediate neighbourhood is doing anything with any garlic (it is well to
avoid the vestibules if one is squeamish in that particular) we lift our
feet off the floor, tuck them into the tail of our overcoat, and remain
blissfully suspended in midair from Chambers Street to Ninety-sixth. The
pressure of our fellow-passengers, powerfully impingin