o him as music
might, exalting his soul. What a wonderful thing this was, this
sea--where ships were and whales and great mysteries. What a wonderful
thing New York was, set down by it, surrounded by it, this metropolis of
the country. Here was the sea; yonder were the great docks that held the
vessels that sailed to the ports of all the world. He saw them--great
grey and black hulls, tied to long piers jutting out into the water. He
listened to the whistles, the swish of the water, saw the circling
gulls, realized emotionally the mass of people. Here were Jay Gould and
Russell Sage and the Vanderbilts and Morgan--all alive and all here.
Wall Street, Fifth Avenue, Madison Square, Broadway--he knew of these by
reputation. How would he do here--how fare? Would the city ever acclaim
him as it did some? He looked wide eyed, with an open heart, with
intense and immense appreciation. Well, he was going to enter, going to
try. He could do that--perhaps, perhaps. But he felt lonely. He wished
he were back with Angela where her soft arms could shut him safe. He
wished he might feel her hands on his cheeks, his hair. He would not
need to fight alone then. But now he was alone, and the city was roaring
about him, a great noise like the sea. He must enter and do battle.

CHAPTER XV

Not knowing routes or directions in New York, Eugene took a Desbrosses
Street ferry, and coming into West Street wandered along that curious
thoroughfare staring at the dock entrances. Manhattan Island seemed a
little shabby to him from this angle but he thought that although
physically, perhaps, it might not be distinguished, there must be other
things which made it wonderful. Later when he saw the solidity of it,
the massed houses, the persistent streams of people, the crush of
traffic, it dawned on him that mere humanity in packed numbers makes a
kind of greatness, and this was the island's first characteristic. There
were others, like the prevailing lowness of the buildings in its old
neighborhoods, the narrowness of the streets in certain areas, the
shabbiness of brick and stone when they have seen an hundred years of
weather, which struck him as curious or depressing. He was easily
touched by exterior conditions.

As he wandered he kept looking for some place where he might like to
live, some house that had a yard or a tree. At length he found a row of
houses in lower Seventh Avenue with an array of iron balconies in front
which appeale