walking under a canopy, crowned with paper flowers, his hair curled over
his coat collar, the tips of his fingers were suavely joined over his
abdomen.

The moment he caught sight of me he shouted, "Police!"

He was right. The cabinet lacked only me.

And I might have consented to tarry--might have allowed myself to be
apprehended for political purposes, had not a nobler, holier, more
imperative duty urged me northward still.

Though all Bloomingdale shouted, "Stop him!" and all Matteawan yelled,
"Police!" I should not have consented to pause. Even the quackitudinous
recognition spontaneously offered by the Metropolitan Museum had not been
sufficient to decoy me to my fellows.

I knew, of course, that I could find a sanctuary and a welcome in many
places--in almost any sectarian edifice, any club, any newspaper office,
any of the great publishers', any school, any museum; I knew that I would
be welcomed at Columbia University, at the annex to the Hall of Fame, in
the Bishop's Palace on Morningside Heights--there were many places all
ready to receive, understand and honour me.

For a sufficiently crippled intellect, for a still-born brain, for the
intellectually aborted, there is always a place on some editorial,
sectarian, or educational staff.

Try It!