uninspiring chimney-pots of the City of New York, at the equally
uninspiring Long Island station on the far side of the East River.
It was well for him that his eye was able to see, and yet not see:
forgetfulness of those smoking chimney-pots, the red-zincked roofs,
the flapping under-clothing of the poorer than he, hung out to dry on
the tenement tops, was essential to the construction of such a story
as Messrs. Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick had in mind; and Harley
successfully forgot them, and, coming back to consciousness, brought
with him the dramatis personae of his story--and, taken as a whole,
they were an interesting lot. The hero was like most of those
gentlemen who live their little lives in the novels of the day, only
Harley had modified his accomplishments in certain directions.
Robert Osborne--such was his name--was not the sort of man to do
impossible things for his heroine. He was not reckless. He was not
a D'Artagnan lifted from the time of Louis the Fourteenth to the
dull, prosaic days of President Faure. He was not even a Frenchman,
but an essentially American American, who desires to know, before he
does anything, why he does it, and what are his chances of success.
I am not sure that if he had happened to see her struggling in the
ocean he would have jumped in to rescue the young woman to whom his
hand was plighted--I do not speak of his heart, for I am not Harley,
and I do not know whether or not Harley intended that Osborne should
be afflicted with so inconvenient an organ--I am not sure, I say,
that if he had seen his best-beloved struggling in the ocean Osborne
would have jumped in to rescue her without first stopping to remove
such of his garments as might impede his progress back to land again.
In short, he was not one of those impetuous heroes that we read about
so often and see so seldom; but, taken altogether, he was
sufficiently attractive to please the American girl who might be
expected to read Harley's book; for that was one of the stipulations