an island, which is mostly lamb surrounded by Wall Street water. The
conjunction of so many units into so small a space must result in an
identity--or, or rather a homogeneity that finds its oral expression
through a common channel. It is, as you might say, a consensus of
translation, concentrating in a crystallized, general idea which
reveals itself in what may be termed the Voice of the City. Can you
tell me what it is?"

Aurelia smiled wonderfully. She sat on the high stoop. A spray
of insolent ivy bobbed against her right ear. A ray of impudent
moonlight flickered upon her nose. But I was adamant, nickel-plated.

"I must go and find out," I said, "what is the Voice of this City.
Other cities have voices. It is an assignment. I must have it. New
York," I continued, in a rising tone, "had better not hand me a cigar
and say: 'Old man, I can't talk for publication.' No other city acts
in that way. Chicago says, unhesitatingly, 'I will;' I Philadelphia
says, 'I should;' New Orleans says, 'I used to;' Louisville says,
'Don't care if I do;' St. Louis says, 'Excuse me;' Pittsburg says,
'Smoke up.' Now, New York--"

Aurelia smiled.

"Very well," said I, "I must go elsewhere and find out."

I went into a palace, tile-floored, cherub-ceilinged and square with
the cop. I put my foot on the brass rail and said to Billy Magnus,
the best bartender in the diocese:

"Billy, you've lived in New York a long time--what kind of a