BOOK II
1
MARTIN STEELE came back to America after two years’ absence. He was known over there as the “Yankee Devil.” Danger seemed to attract him; he rushed through a rain of bullets and planted the flag in the face of the enemy. He was happy; the straining of nerve and sinew helped to quiet an inward restlessness. On landing he found a telegram from his mother; she wanted him to go up and see “The Museum” before coming to Boston. He tore up the telegram with an ugly scowl.
The corner of Broadway and Forty-second Street—gigantic waves of humanity passing, moving up, down, across—screeching automobiles emitting pestilential odors—rapidly changing electric signs—the only stagnation was in the air—it weighed on his chest, halted his breath. He stood with his hands deep in his pockets. There was something psychic going on within him; the boys who came home brought with them a strange consciousness: they had seen miracles.
He felt the leaden mentality oozing out from the crowd, became keenly conscious of the mixture of races; those tense, strained faces, looking straight ahead; the past forgotten; the future—who cares? “We build for today; the next man will build for his day.” “The Present” in electric letters of colored flames. “How am I to borrow or steal for—women—for wine. Prohibition?—ha! ha!—who takes that seriously; who takes anything seriously?”
Martin elbowed himself through the crowd; a soldier in khaki, people looked after him; a fine strong fellow from the prairies, seeing the sight of the Great White Way.
He mopped his forehead, saying to himself, “Where shall I go?”
He stood before the house where he was born, read the black and gold sign on the door.