roud man, a man of very respectable family. Perhaps he
ought to be glad that McLaughlin had n't done any worse than refuse him a
raise.

Skinner did not stop to think that it would be easier for him to get a
job now than it had been in those suppliant days. He was now
experienced, skillful, more level-headed. His honesty and loyalty were a
by-word in the business district.

His thoughts took another turn, and he looked at himself in the mirror.
Gad! He had all the earmarks of back-numberhood. His hair was gray at
the temples and he was shabby, neat but shabby. But he was only
thirty-eight, he reflected,--the most interesting period of a man's life;
he was wise without being old. And he was not bad-looking. He studied
the reflection of his face. The picturesqueness of youth was lined--not
too deeply lined--by the engraving hand of experience. What was the
matter with him, then? Why was he not more of a success? Was it because
he had been a "cage man" too long, always taking orders, always
acquiescing subserviently, never asserting?

He looked out of the window. The river was gray, everything was
gray--nothing pleased him. But the river used to be blue, always blue,
when he first crossed it, a buoyant youth. The river had n't changed.
It was the same river he had always loved. Then the change must be in
him, Skinner. Why had he gradually ceased to enjoy things? Who was to
blame for the drab existence he was suffering? Was it the outside world
or himself?

As a boy, things were new to him--that was why the river was blue. But
there were many things new to him to-day--peoples, countries,
customs--yes, a thousand things new and interesting right in New York,
close at hand, if he'd only take the trouble to look them up. Why was
his ability to appreciate failing? Other men, much older than he and
only clerks at that, were happy. He sighed. It must be himself, for,
after all, the world had treated him as well as he had treated the world,
he reflected, being a just man.

Unfortunately, on the train Skinner got a seat in the very center of a
circle of social chatterboxes, male commuters, and female shoppers. Some
talked of their machines and rattled off the names of the makers. There
was the Pierce-Arrow, the Packard, the Buick, and all the rest of the
mechanical buzz-wagons. There was an inextricable mass of
phrases--six-cylinder, self-starter, non-puncturable, non-skiddable. But
he did n't hear