board sign: "Doogan
Storage."

To spare himself nothing, he went out National Avenue and saw the piles
of slush-covered wreckage where the Mansion and his mother's house had
been, and where the Major's ill-fated five "new" houses had stood; for
these were down, too, to make room for the great tenement already shaped
in unending lines of foundation. But the Fountain of Neptune was gone at
last--and George was glad that it was!

He turned away from the devastated site, thinking bitterly that the
only Amberson mark still left upon the town was the name of the
boulevard--Amberson Boulevard. But he had reckoned without the city
council of the new order, and by an unpleasant coincidence, while the
thought was still in his mind, his eye fell upon a metal oblong sign
upon the lamppost at the corner. There were two of these little signs
upon the lamp-post, at an obtuse angle to each other, one to give
passers-by the name of National Avenue, the other to acquaint them with
Amberson Boulevard. But the one upon which should have been stenciled
"Amberson Boulevard" exhibited the words "Tenth Street."

George stared at it hard. Then he walked quickly along the boulevard to
the next corner and looked at the little sign there. "Tenth Street."

It had begun to rain, but George stood unheeding, staring at the little
sign. "Damn them!" he said finally, and, turning up his coat-collar,
plodded back through the soggy streets toward "home."

The utilitarian impudence of the city authorities put a thought into his
mind. A week earlier he had happened to stroll into the large parlour
of the apartment house, finding it empty, and on the center table he
noticed a large, red-bound, gilt-edged book, newly printed, bearing
the title: "A Civic History," and beneath the title, the rubric,
"Biographies of the 500 Most Prominent Citizens and Families in the
History of the City." He had glanced at it absently, merely noticing
the title and sub-title, and wandered out of the room, thinking of other
things and feeling no curiosity about the book. But he had thought of
it several times since with a faint, vague uneasiness; and now when he
entered the lobby he walked directly into the parlour where he had seen
the book. The room was empty, as it always was on Sunday mornings, and
the flamboyant volume was still upon the table--evidently a fixture as
a sort of local Almanach de Gotha, or Burke, for the enlightenment of
tenants and boarders.

He opened