merrily in the fountain jet in front of that building. We think of
the merry mercators of the Whitehall Club sitting at lunch on the
cool summit of that great edifice. We think of the view as seen from
there, the olive-coloured gleam of the water, the ships and tugs
speckled about the harbour. And, looking down, we can see a peaceful
gentleman sitting on a bench in St. Paul's graveyard, reading a
book. We think seriously of writing a note, "_What are you
reading?_" and weighting it with an inkwell and hurling it down to
him. This window continually draws our mind outward and sets us
speculating, when we ought to be answering letters or making
inquiries of coal dealers as to whether there is any chance of
getting a supply for next winter.

* * * * *

On such a day, having in mind that we ought to write another chapter
of our book "How to Spend Three Hours at Lunch Time," we issued
forth with Endymion to seek refreshment. It was a noontide to stir
even the most carefully fettered bourgeois to impulses of escapade
and foray. What should we do? At first we had some thought of
showing to Endymion the delightful subterranean passage that leads
from the cathedral grottoes of the Woolworth Building to the City
Hall subway station, but we decided we could not bear to leave the
sunlight. So we chose a path at random and found ourselves at the
corner of Beekman and Gold streets.

Now our intention was to make tracks toward Hanover Square and there
to consider the world as viewed over the profile of a slab of
cheesecake; but on viewing the agreeable old house at the corner of
Gold Street--"The Old Beekman, Erected 1827," once called the Old