olitan pageant.

The arcade of Madison Square Garden was already packed with men and he
knew that a triple line reached down Twenty-sixth Street to Fourth
Avenue. There was to be a prize fight tonight and the men had stood
there since noon, buying apples and peanuts from peddlers. This was
Tuesday and there was no half-holiday. These men appeared to have
unbounded leisure while the rest of the city toiled or demanded work.
But they were always warmly dressed and indubitably well-fed. They
belonged to what is vaguely known as the sporting fraternity, and were
invariably in funds, although they must have existed with the minimum
of work. The army of unemployed was hardly larger and certainly no
bread line was ever half as long. Mounted police rode up and down to
avert any anticipation of the night's battle. A loud barking murmur
rose and mingled with the roar of the avenues.

The great clock of the Metropolitan Tower began to play those sad and
sweetly ominous notes preliminary to booming out the hour. They always
reminded him of the warning bell on a wild and rocky coast, with
something of the Lorelei in its cadences: like a heartless woman's
subtle allure, poignantly difficult to resist.

There was a knock on the door. Clavering gave his daily stint to the
messenger boy. He was hunting for change, when he recaptured his
column, sat down at his desk, and, running it over hastily, inserted
the word "authentic." New York must have its Word, even as its topic.
"Authentic," loosed upon the world by Arnold Bennett, was the rage at
present. The little writers hardly dared use it. It was, as it were,
the trademark of the Sophisticates.

The boy, superior, indifferent, and chewing gum, accepted his tip and
departed. Clavering returned to the window. Gone was the symphony of
gold and gray. The buildings surrounding the Square were a dark and
formless mass in the heavy dusk. Only the street lights below shone
like globular phosphorescence on a dark and turbulent sea.

Two hours later he left his hotel and walked up Madison Avenue.
Twenty-sixth Street was deserted and as littered with papers, peanut
shells, and various other debris as a picnic train. The mounted police
had disappeared. From the great building came the first roar of the
thousands assembled, whether in approval or the reverse it would be
difficult to determine. They roared upon the slightest pretext and
they would roar steadily until half-pas