he felt toward they child who had defied him, and when the game was over
and he started home his rage mounted into a sort of frenzy; he would
teach her, he would break her. He walked a long way without thinking, and
then waited for a car. None came, and he hailed a passing coupe.

"What has got all the cars?" he demanded of the driver, who jumped down
from his box to open the door for him and get his direction.

"Been away?" asked the driver. "Hasn't been any car along for a week.
Strike."

"Oh yes," said Dryfoos. He felt suddenly giddy, and he remained staring
at the driver after he had taken his seat.

The man asked, "Where to?"

Dryfoos could not think of his street or number, and he said, with
uncontrollable fury: "I told you once! Go up to West Eleventh, and drive
along slow on the south side; I'll show you the place."

He could not remember the number of 'Every Other Week' office, where he
suddenly decided to stop before he went home. He wished to see Fulkerson,
and ask him something about Beaton: whether he had been about lately, and
whether he had dropped any hint of what had happened concerning
Christine; Dryfoos believed that Fulkerson was in the fellow's
confidence.

There was nobody but Conrad in the counting-room, whither Dryfoos
returned after glancing into Fulkerson's empty office. "Where's
Fulkerson?" he asked, sitting down with his hat on.