Kedzie had preferred her own life to the security of her valise. She dropped the bag without hesitation. When the taxicab parted her family in the middle, Kedzie ran to the opposite sidewalk. She saw a policeman dashing into the thick of the motors. Her eye caught his. He beckoned to her that he would ferry her across the torrent. He was a nice-looking man, but she shook her head at him. She smiled, however, and hastened away.
Freedom had been forced on her. Why should she relinquish the boon?
She lost herself in the crowd. She had no purpose or destination, for the whole city was a mystery to her. Soon she noted that part of the human stream flowed down into the yawning maw of a Subway kiosk as the water ran out of the bath-tub in the hotel. She floated down the steps and found herself in a big subterrene room with walls tiled like those of the hotel bathroom. Everybody was buying tickets from a man in a funny little cage.
Kedzie had a hand-bag slung at her wrist. In it was some small money. She fished out a nickel and slid it across the glass sill as the others did.
Beneath her eyes she saw a card that asked, “How many?” She said, “One.”
The doleful ticket-seller was annoyed at the tautology of passing him a nickel and saying, “One!” He shot out an angry glance with the ticket, but he melted at sight of Kedzie's lush beauty, recognized her unquestionable plebeiance, and hailed her with a “Here you are, Cutie.”
Kedzie was not at all insulted. She gave him smile for smile, took up her pasteboard and followed the crowd through the gate.
The ticket-chopper yelled at the back of her head, “Here, where you goin'?”
She turned to him, and his scowl relaxed. He pointed to the box and pleaded:
“Put her there, miss, if you please.”