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 how very much Third Avenue was cooled by the shadows of the elevated railroad.

A block is a block, and there were some hundred and thirty numbered blocks ahead of him, something over six miles of hard pavement. Beyond that the streets had names, he knew that much, but he could only guess how many such streets there were, and how many long hard miles separated him from the famous Brooklyn Bridge.

When at last he came to the Brooklyn Bridge it was after three o'clock and he had been walking steadily since breakfast. He was tired now and a little lame. But when he had walked well out on the Bridge, and saw the river and the ships below him, and the dizzy wires above, and all the spires of Brooklyn beyond, and to the right the great hazy stretch of New York's harbor, and felt the cool breeze mousing in under his sweaty jacket, he experienced a superb happiness and refreshment. Then there were no such things as fatigue in the world, or meanness, or swollen feet. It was glorious to be alive. Many times between Manhattan and Brooklyn he stopped and looked, and in his mind's eye superbly drew and painted the superb things that he saw.

And all the superb things that he saw, except the water and sky, were the works of men. Not women.