Here he made a thoughtful survey of the dismal place in which he had spent so many months, picked up his blackthorn stick, and, leaving the door ajar, walked slowly down-stairs, his hand on the rail as a guide in the dark.
"And you aren't comin' back, sir ?" remarked the landlady, who had listened for his steps.
"That, madame, one never can tell." "Well, you are always welcome." "Thank you--good-by." "Good-by, sir; my husband's out or he would like to shake your hand." O'Day bowed slightly and stepped into the street, his stick under his arm, his hands hooked behind his back.

That he had no immediate purpose in view was evident from the way he loitered along, stopping to look at the store windows or to scrutinize the passing crowd, each person intent on his or her special business.

By the time he had reached Broadway the upper floors of the business buildings were dark, but the windows of the restaurants, cigar shops, and saloons had begun to blaze out and a throng of pleasure seekers to replace that of the shoppers and workers.
This aspect of New York appealed to him most.

There were fewer people moving about the streets and in less of a hurry, and he could study them the closer.
In a cheap restaurant off Union Square he ate a spare and inexpensive meal, whiled away an hour over the free afternoon papers, went out to watch an audience thronging into one of the smaller theatres, and then boarded a down-town car.

When he reached Trinity Church the clock was striking, and, as he often did when here at this hour, he entered the open gate and, making his way among the shadows sat down, on a flat tomb.