The Gates of Chance by Van Tassel Sutphen
page 32 of 228 (14%)
page 32 of 228 (14%)
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We left the house, and Indiman tossed a penny into the air.
"Broadway, heads; Fourth Avenue, tails." Tails it was. Arrived at Fourth Avenue, we stood waiting for a car. The first that came along was on its way up-town and we boarded it. "Was it you who asked for a cross-town transfer at Twenty-ninth?" inquired the conductor of Indiman a few minutes later, and Indiman nodded assent and took the transfer slips. At Eighth Avenue the cross-town car was blocked by a stalled coal- cart. We alighted and passively awaited further directions from our esoteric guide. Quite an amusing game for a dull, rainy afternoon, and I felt grateful to Indiman for its invention. The policeman on the corner was endeavoring to direct a very small boy with a very large bundle. "Up one block and turn east," he said, impressively. "I've told you that now three times." I had a flash of inspiration. "Copper it," I cried. "Right," said Indiman, soberly. We walked down one block to Twenty- eighth Street and then turned westward. New York is a big city, and therefore entitled to present an occasional anomaly to the observant eye. And this particular section of Twenty-eighth Street is one of these departures from the normal, a block or two of respectable, even handsome houses set as an oasis in a dull and sordid neighborhood. How and why this should be does not matter; it is to be presumed that the people who live |
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