"Of what?" demanded the city editor. "There's nothing to New
York except cement, iron girders, noise, and zinc garbage
cans. You never see the sun in New York; you never see the
moon unless you stand in the middle of the street and bend
backward. We never see flowers in New York except on the
women's hats. We never see the women except in cages in the
elevators--they spend their lives shooting up and down
elevator shafts in department stores, in apartment houses, in
office buildings. And we never see children in New York
because the janitors won't let the women who live in
elevators have children! Don't talk to me! New York's a
Little Nemo nightmare. It's a joke. It's an insult!"

"How curious!" said Sam. "Now I see why they took you off the
street and made you a city editor. I don't agree with
anything you say. Especially are you wrong about the women.
They ought to be caged in elevators, but they're not.
Instead, they flash past you in the street; they shine upon
you from boxes in the theatre; they frown at you from the
tops of buses; they smile at you from the cushions of a taxi,
across restaurant tables under red candle shades, when you
offer them a seat in the subway. They are the only thing in
New York that gives me any trouble."

The city editor sighed. "How young you are!" he exclaimed.
"However, to-morrow you will be free from your only trouble.
There will be few women at the celebration, and they will be
interested only in convalescents--and you do not look like a
convalescent."