Before the year was out, he was a recognized quantity in certain book-stores, and was privileged to browse at will both among old and new books without interference or suggestion from the "stock" clerks.

"There isn't any good trying to sell him anything," remarked one.

"He makes up his mind for himself." His reading was broadened out from the classic and belles-lettres grooves that were still almost a cult with the college graduate, by another recreation now become habitual with him.

In his long tramps about the city, to vary the monotony, he would sometimes stop and chat with people--with a policeman, a fruit-vender, a longshoreman or a truckster.

It mattered little who it was.