"Time's going by, and here you are!" mocked the real person--who was, of
course, not K. Le Moyne at all. "You're the hell of a lot of use, aren't
you? Two and two are four and three are seven--take off the discount.
That's right. It's a man's work, isn't it?"

"Somebody's got to do this sort of thing," protested the small part of his
brain that earned the two-fifty per working day. "And it's a great
anaesthetic. He can't think when he's doing it. There's something
practical about figures, and--rational."

He dressed quickly, ascertaining that he had enough money to buy a
five-dollar ticket at Mrs. McKee's; and, having given up the love of woman
with other things, he was careful not to look about for Sidney on his way.

He breakfasted at Mrs. McKee's, and was initiated into the mystery of the
ticket punch. The food was rather good, certainly plentiful; and even his
squeamish morning appetite could find no fault with the self-respecting
tidiness of the place. Tillie proved to be neat and austere. He fancied
it would not be pleasant to be very late for one's meals--in fact, Sidney
had hinted as much. Some of the "mealers"--the Street's name for
them--ventured on various small familiarities of speech with Tillie. K. Le
Moyne himself was scrupulously polite, but reserved. He was determined not
to let the Street encroach on his wretchedness. Because he had come to
live there was no reason why it should adopt him. But he was very polite.
When the deaf-and-dumb book agent wrote something on a pencil pad and
pushed it toward him, he replied in kind.