Sam Folwell arrived in New York in the night. Stillmoving and living in the free circles of nature， he didnot perceive the formidable， pitiless， restless， fierce anglesof the great city waiting in the dark to close about therotundity of his heart and brain and mould him to the formof its millions of re-shaped victims. A cabby picked him outof the whirl， as Sam himself had often picked a nut from abed of wind-tossed autumn leaves， and whisked him awayto a hotel commensurate to his boots and carpet-sack.
On the next morning the last of the Folwells madehis sortie into the city that sheltered the last Harkness.
The Colt was thrust beneath his coat and secured by anarrow leather belt； the hunting-knife hung between hisshoulder-blades， with the haft an inch below his coatcollar. He knew this much—that Cal Harkness drove anexpress wagon somewhere in that town， and that he， SamFolwell， had come to kill him. And as he stepped upon thesidewalk the red came into his eye and the feud-hate intohis heart.
The clamor of the central avenues drew him thitherward.
He had half expected to see Cal coming down the street inhis shirt-sleeves， with a jug and a whip in his hand， just ashe would have seen him in Frankfort or Laurel City. Butan hour went by and Cal did not appear. Perhaps he waswaiting in ambush， to shoot him from a door or a window.
Sam kept a sharp eye on doors and windows for a while.
About noon the city tired of playing with its mouse andsuddenly squeezed him with its straight lines.
Sam Folwell stood where two great， rectangular arteriesof the city cross. He looked four ways， and saw the worldhurled from its orbit and reduced by spirit level and tapeto an edged and cornered plane. All life moved on tracks，in grooves， according to system， within boundaries， byrote. The root of life was the cube root； the measure ofexistence was square measure. People streamed by instraight rows； the horrible din and crash stupefied him.
Sam leaned against the sharp corner of a stone building.
Those faces passed him by thousands， and none of themwere turned toward him. A sudden foolish fear that hehad died and was a spirit， and that they could not see him，seized him. And then the city smote him with loneliness.
A fat man dropped out of the stream and stood a fewfeet distant， waiting for his car. Sam crept to his side andshouted above the tumult into his ear：
“The Rankinses’ hogs weighed more’n ourn a wholepassel， but the mast in thar neighborhood was a finechance better than what it was down—”
The fat man moved away unostentatiously， and boughtroasted chestnuts to cover his alarm.
Sam felt the need of a drop of mountain dew. Acrossthe street men passed in and out through swinging doors.
Brief glimpses could be had of a glistening bar and itsbedeckings. The feudist crossed and essayed to enter.
Again had Art eliminated the familiar circle. Sam’s handfound no door-knob—it slid， in vain， over a rectangularbrass plate and polished oak with nothing even so large asa pin’s head upon which his fingers might close.
Abashed， reddened， heartbroken， he walked awayfrom the bootless door and sat upon a step. A locust clubtickled him in the ribs.
“Take a walk for yourself，” said the policeman. “You’vebeen loafing around here long enough.”
At the next corner a shrill whistle sounded in Sam’sear. He wheeled around and saw a black-browed villainscowling at him over peanuts heaped on a steamingmachine. He started across the street. An immenseengine， running without mules， with the voice of a bulland the smell of a smoky lamp， whizzed past， grazing hisknee. A cab-driver bumped him with a hub and explainedto him that kind words were invented to be used on otheroccasions. A motorman clanged his bell wildly and， foronce in his life， corroborated a cab-driver. A large lady ina changeable silk waist dug an elbow into his back， and anewsy pensively pelted him with banana rinds， murmuring，“I hates to do it—but if anybody seen me let it pass！”
Cal Harkness， his day’s work over and his express wagonstabled， turned the sharp edge of the building that， by thecheek of architects， is modelled upon a safety razor. Outof the mass of hurrying people his eye picked up， threeyards away， the surviving bloody and implacable foe of hiskith and kin.
He stopped short and wavered for a moment， beingunarmed and sharply surprised. But the keen mountaineer’seye of Sam Folwell had picked him out.
There was a sudden spring， a ripple in the stream ofpassers-by and the sound of Sam’s voice crying：
“Howdy， Cal！ I’m durned glad to see ye.”
And in the angles of Broadway， Fifth Avenue andTwenty-third Street the Cumberland feudists shookhands.
