But he had not got his come-upance, and those who counted upon it were
embittered by his appearance upon the down-town streets driving a dog-
cart at criminal speed, making pedestrians retreat from the crossings,
and behaving generally as if he "owned the earth." A disgusted
hardware dealer of middle age, one of those who hungered for Georgie's
downfall, was thus driven back upon the sidewalk to avoid being run
over, and so far forgot himself as to make use of the pet street
insult of the year: "Got 'ny sense! See here, bub, does your mother
know you're out?"

Georgie, without even seeming to look at him, flicked the long lash of
his whip dexterously, and a little spurt of dust came from the
hardware man's trousers, not far below the waist. He was not made of
hardware: he raved, looking for a missile; then, finding none,
commanded himself sufficiently to shout after the rapid dog-cart:
"Turn down your pants, you would-be dude! Raining in dear ole Lunnon!
Git off the earth!"

Georgie gave him no encouragement to think that he was heard. The
dog-cart turned the next corner, causing indignation there, likewise,
and, having proceeded some distance farther, halted in front of the
"Amberson Block"--an old-fashioned four-story brick warren of lawyers
offices, insurance and realestate offices, with a "drygoods store"
occupying the ground floor. Georgie tied his lathered trotter to a
telegraph pole, and stood for a moment looking at the building
critically: it seemed shabby, and he thought his grandfather ought to
replace it with a fourteen-story skyscraper, or even a higher one,
such as he had lately seen in New York--when he stopped there for a
few days of recreation and rest on his way home from the bereaved