Looking down Broadway early one evening--a shining avenue of joy--he
thought of the times when he had gazed across a certain valley of his
West and dreamed of bringing a message to this spot.

Against the sky many electric signs flamed garishly. Beneath them were
the little grinding wheels of the machine--satisfied, joyous, wisely
sufficient unto themselves, needing no message--least of all the simple
old truth he had to give. He tried to picture his message blazing
against the sky among the other legends: from where he stood the three
most salient were the names of a popular pugilist, a malt beverage and a
theatre. The need of another message was not apparent.

So he laughed at himself and went down into the crowd foregathered in
ways of pleasure, and there he drank of the beer whose name was flaunted
to the simple stars. Truly a message to this people must be put into a
sign of electric bulbs; into a phonograph to be listened to for a coin,
with an automatic banjo accompaniment; or it must be put upon the stage
to be acted or sung or danced! Otherwise he would be a wheel rejected--a
wheel ground up in striving to become a part of the machine at a place
where no wheel was needed.

For another experience cooling to his once warm hopes, the second day of
his visit Allan had taken him to his weekly Ministers' Meeting--an
affair less formidable than its title might imply.

A dozen or so good fellows of the cloth had luncheon together each
Tuesday at the house of one or another, or at a restaurant; and here
they talked shop or not as they chose, the thing insisted upon being
congeniality--that for once in the week they should be secure from
bores.