He took off his hat and examined it.
"What's the matter with this?"
"It's like yourself, Joe—worn out!"
"But the boys of Eighty-first Street won't know me in a new hat."
"Never mind the boys of Eighty-first Street. Do as I tell you."
"Aw, Myra, give me a day to steel my heart and strengthen my sinews.
Wait till we come back."
"And you'll get it then?"
"Sure as fate."
"Well—just this once you'll have your way!"
So they took the elevated to Seventy-sixth Street and walked through the old neighborhood to the printery. The familiar streets, which secretly bore the print of every size shoe he had worn since he was a tiny toddling fellow, made him meditative, almost sad.