He wondered where all this rush of people was going.
What crazy impulses sent them surging to and fro? And the girls--Clay
surrendered to them at discretion. He had not supposed there were so
many pretty, well-dressed girls in the world.
"I reckon money grows on trees in New York," he told himself aloud with
a grin.
Broadway fascinated him. He followed it uptown toward Longacre Circle.
The street was as usual in a state of chronic excavation. His foot
slipped and he fell into a trench while trying to cross. When he
emerged it was with a pound or two of Manhattan mud on his corduroy
suit. He looked at himself again with a sense that his garb did not
quite measure up to New York standards.
"First off I'm goin' to get me a real city suit of clothes," he
promised himself. "This here wrinkled outfit is some too woolly for
the big town. It's a good suit yet--'most as good as when I bought it
at the Boston Store in Tucson three years ago. But I reckon I'll save
it to go home in."
To a policeman directing traffic at a crossing he applied for
information.
"Can you tell me where there's a dry-goods store in this man's town?"
he asked. "I fell into this here Broadway and got kinda messed up."
"Watchawant?"
"Suit o' clothes."
The traffic cop sized him up in one swift glance. "Siventh Avenue," he
said, and pointed in that direction.
Clay took his advice. He stopped in front of a store above which was
the legend "I.
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