vy whatever for the ancients
of the Mermaid Tavern. After venison pasty, and feeling somewhat in the
mood of Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, we set off with our friend Endymion
for a stroll through the wilderness. The first adventure of note that we
encountered was the curb market on Broad Street, where we stood
entranced at the merry antics of the brokers. This, however, is a
spectacle that no layman can long contemplate and still deem himself
sane. That sea of flickering fingers, the hubbub of hoarse cries, and
the enigmatic gestures of youths framed in the open windows gave an
impression of something fierce and perilous happening. Endymion, still
deeming himself in Sherwood Forest, insisted that this was the abode of
the Sheriff of Nottingham. "Stout deeds are toward!" he cried. "These
villain wights have a damsel imprisoned in yonder keep!" With difficulty
we restrained him from pressing to the rescue of the lady (for indeed we
could see her, comely enough, appearing now and then at one of the
windows; and anon disappearing, abashed at the wild throng). But
gradually we realized that no such dire matter was being transacted, for
the knights, despite occasional spasms of hot gesticulating fury, were
mild and meant her no ill. One, after a sudden flux of business
concerning (it seemed) 85 shares of Arizona Copper, fell suddenly
placid, and was eating chocolate ice cream from a small paper plate.
Young gallants, wearing hats trimmed with variegated brightly coloured
stuffs (the favours of their ladies, we doubted not), were conferring
together, but without passion or rancour.

We have a compact with our friend Endymion that as soon as either of us
spends money for anything not strictly necessary he must straightway
return to the office. After leaving the curb market, we found ourselves
in a basement bookshop on Broadway, and here Endymion fell afoul of a
copy of Thomas Hardy's "Wessex Poems," illustrated by the author.
Piteously he tried to persuade us that it was a matter of professional
advancement to him to have this book; moreover, he said, he had just won
five dollars at faro (or some such hazard) so that he was not really
spending money at all; but we countered all his sophisms with slogging
rhetoric. He bought the book, and so had to return to the office in
disgrace.

We fared further, having a mind to revisit the old Eastern Hotel, down
by the South Ferry, of whose cool and dusky bar-room we had pleasant
memories