block, and they turned with a vicious sweep and plunged into the
very heart of the tenement district. Narrow, filthy streets, with
huge, canon-like blocks of buildings, covered with rusty iron
fire-escapes and decorated with soap-boxes and pails and laundry and
babies; narrow stoops, crowded with playing children; grocery-shops,
clothing-shops, saloons; and a maze of placards and signs in English
and German and Yiddish. Through the throngs Oliver drove, his brows
knitted with impatience and his horn honking angrily. "Take it
easy,"--protested Montague; but the other answered, "Bah!" Children
screamed and darted out of the way, and men and women started back,
scowling and muttering; when a blockade of wagons and push-carts
forced them to stop, the children gathered about and jeered, and a
group of hoodlums loafing by a saloon flung ribaldry at them; but
Oliver never turned his eyes from the road ahead.

And at last they were out on the bridger. "Slow vehicles keep to the
right," ran the sign, and so there was a lane for them to the left.
They sped up the slope, the cold air beating upon them like a
hurricane. Far below lay the river, with tugs and ferry-boats
ploughing the wind-beaten grey water, and a city spread out on
either bank--a wilderness of roofs, with chimneys sticking up and
white jets of steam spouting everywhere. Then they sped down the
farther slope, and into Brooklyn.

There was an asphalted avenue, lined with little residences. There
was block upon block of them, mile after mile of them--Montague had
never, seen so many houses in his life before, and nearly all poured
out of the same mould.

Many other automobiles were speeding out by this avenue, and they