anything he chose--leisure to be hungry and satisfy the inclination
with philosophy. He was perfectly at liberty to choose any subject
and think about it. But he spent most of his time in trying to
prevent himself from thinking.

However, from his window, the street views now were usually
interesting; he was an unconvinced spectator of the mob which
started for the _Daily News_ office, hissing, cat-calling, yelling:
"Show your colours!" "Run up your colours!" He saw the mob visit
the _Journal of Commerce_, and then turn on the _Herald_, yelling
insult and bellowing threats which promptly inspired that journal
to execute a political flip-flap that set the entire city smiling.

Stephen, who had conceived a younger man's furtive admiration for
Berkley and his rumoured misdemeanours, often came into his room
when opportunity offered. That morning he chanced in for a moment
and found Berkley at the window chewing the end of a pencil,
perhaps in lieu of the cigar he could no longer afford.

"These are spectacular times," observed the latter, with a gesture
toward the street below. "Observe yonder ladylike warrior in
brand-new regimentals. Apparently, Stephen, he's a votary of Mars
and pants for carnage; but in reality he continues to remain the
sartorial artist whose pants are more politely emitted. He emitted
these--" patting his trousers with a ruler. "On what goose has
this my tailor fed that he hath grown so sightly!"

They stood watching the crowds, once brightened only by the red
shirts of firemen or the blue and brass of a policeman, but now
varied with weird uniforms, or parts of uniforms, constructed on