concerned with the trial.

I looked around apprehensively. There were no reporters yet in
sight, and thankful to have escaped notice I paid for my breakfast
and left. At the cab-stand I chose the least dilapidated hansom
I could find, and giving the driver the address of the Gilmore
residence, in the East end, I got in.

I was just in time. As the cab turned and rolled off, a slim young
man in a straw hat separated himself from a little group of men and
hurried toward us.

"Hey! Wait a minute there!" he called, breaking into a trot.

But the cabby did not hear, or perhaps did not care to. We jogged
comfortably along, to my relief, leaving the young man far behind.
I avoid reporters on principle, having learned long ago that I am
an easy mark for a clever interviewer.

It was perhaps nine o'clock when I left the station. Our way was
along the boulevard which hugged the side of one of the city's great
hills. Far below, to the left, lay the railroad tracks and the
seventy times seven looming stacks of the mills. The white mist of
the river, the grays and blacks of the smoke blended into a
half-revealing haze, dotted here and there with fire. It was
unlovely, tremendous. Whistler might have painted it with its
pathos, its majesty, but he would have missed what made it
infinitely suggestive--the rattle and roar of iron on iron, the
rumble of wheels, the throbbing beat, against the ears, of fire
and heat and brawn welding prosperity.