The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so often
that they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-made
garments. That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find in the
griefs of the common people their most striking models. But when the
Philistine would disport himself, the grimness of Melpomene, herself,
attends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny set his jaw hard at Easter,
and took his pleasure sadly.

The family entrance of Dugan's cafe was feasible; so Danny yielded to
the vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a dark,
linoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still groped after the
mysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee.

"Say, Tim," he said to the waiter, "why do they have Easter?"

"Skiddoo!" said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. "Is that a new one?
All right. Tony Pastor's for you last night, I guess. I give it up.
What's the answer--two apples or a yard and a half?"

From Dugan's Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed to stir in
him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made a wrong
diagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon.

A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. They
pumped hands on the corner.

"Gee! but you look dumpish and dressed up," said Katy. "What's wrong?
Come away with me to church and be cheerful."