there patiently enough, and watch sharply enough you will even see
a chance New Yorker.

From door to desk Jock's eyes swept. The afternoon-tea crowd, in
paradise feathers, and furs, and frock coats swam back and forth.
He saw it give way to the dinner throng, satin-shod, bejeweled,
hurrying through its oysters, swallowing unbelievable numbers of
cloudy-amber drinks, and golden-brown drinks, and maroon drinks,
then gathering up its furs and rushing theaterwards. He was still
sitting there when that crowd, its eight o'clock freshness
somewhat sullied, its sparkle a trifle dimmed, swept back for more
oysters, more cloudy-amber and golden-brown drinks.

At half-hour intervals, then at hourly intervals, the figure in
the great chair stirred, rose, and walked to the desk.

"Has Mr. Griebler come in?"

The supper throng, its laugh a little ribald, its talk a shade
high-pitched, drifted towards the street, or was wafted up in
elevators. The throng thinned to an occasional group. Then these
became rarer and rarer. The revolving door admitted one man, or
two, perhaps, who lingered not at all in the unaccustomed quiet of
the great glittering lobby.

The figure of the watcher took on a pathetic droop. The eyelids
grew leaden. To open them meant an almost superhuman effort. The
stare of the new night clerks grew more and more hostile and
suspicious. A grayish pallor had settled down on the boy's face.
And those lines of the night before stood out for all to see.