about 400,000 men and women come charging onto the Island each week-day morning,out of the mouths of tubes and tunnels. Not many among them have ever spent a drowsy afternoon in the great rustling oaken silence of the reading room of the Public Library,with the book elevator(like an old water wheel)spewing out out books into the trays. They tend their furnaces in Westchester and in Jersey,but have never seen the furnaces of the Bowery,the fires that burn in oil drums on zero winter nights.