disappeared and
in its place was a granite office building eighteen stories high. Ben
just stood off and looked up at it, too overcome for words. Up near the
top a monster brass sign in writing caught the silver light of dawn. The
sign sprawled clear across the building and said PANTS EXCLUSIVELY.
Still above this was the firm's name in the same medium--looking like a
couple of them hard-lettered towns that get evacuated up in Poland.

Poor stricken Ben looked in silence a long time. We all felt his
suffering and kept silent, too. Even Jeff Tuttle kept still--who all the
way down had been singing about old Bill Bailey who played the Ukelele
in Honolulu Town. It was a solemn moment. After a few more minutes of
silent grief Ben drew himself together and walked off without saying a
word. I thought walking would be a good idea for all of us, especially
Lon and Jeff, so Jake paid the taxi drivers and we followed on foot
after the chief mourner. The fragile New Yorker had been exhumed and
placed in an upright position and he walked, too, when he understood
what was wanted of him; he didn't say a word, just did what was told him
like one of these boys that the professor hypnotizes on the stage. I
herded the bunch along about half a block back of Ben, feeling it was
delicate to let him wallow alone in his emotions.

We got over to Broadway, turned up that, and worked on through that
dinky little grass plot they call a square, kind of aimless like and
wondering where Ben in his grief would lead us. The day was well begun
by this time and the passing cars was full of very quiet people on their
way to early work. Jake Berger said these New Yorkers would pay for it
sooner or later, burning the candle at both ends this way--dancing all
night and then starting off to work.

Then up a little way we catch sight of a regular old-fashioned horse-car
going crosstown. Ben has stopped this and is talking excitedly to the
driver so we hurry up and find he's trying to buy the car from the
driver. Yes, sir; he says its the last remnant of New York when it was
little and old and he wants to take it back to Nome as a souvenir.
Anybody might of thought he'd been drinking. He's got his roll out and
wants to pay for the car right there. The driver is a cold-looking old
boy with gray chin whiskers showing between his cap and his comforter
and he's indignantly telling Ben it can't be done. By the time we get
there the conductor has come around and