ty has a voice. Each one has something to say to the one who
can hear it. What does the big one say to you?"

"All cities," said Aurelia, judicially, "say the same thing. When
they get through saying it there is an echo from Philadelphia. So,
they are unanimous."

"Here are 4,000,000 people," said I, scholastically, "compressed upon
an island, which is mostly lamb surrounded by Wall Street water. The
conjunction of so many units into so small a space must result in an
identity--or, or rather a homogeneity that finds its oral expression
through a common channel. It is, as you might say, a consensus of
translation, concentrating in a crystallized, general idea which
reveals itself in what may be termed the Voice of the City. Can you
tell me what it is?"

Aurelia smiled wonderfully. She sat on the high stoop. A spray
of insolent ivy bobbed against her right ear. A ray of impudent
moonlight flickered upon her nose. But I was adamant, nickel-plated.

"I must go and find out," I said, "what is the Voice of this City.
Other cities have voices. It is an assignment. I must have it. New
York," I continued, in a rising tone, "had better not hand me a cigar
and say: 'Old man, I can't talk for publication.' No other city acts
in that way. Chicago says, unhesitatingly, 'I will;' I Philadelphia
says, 'I should;' New Orleans says, 'I used to;' Louisville says,
'Don't care if I do;' St. Louis says, 'Excuse me;' Pittsburg says,
'Smoke up.' Now, New York--"

Aurelia smiled.

"Very well," said I, "I must go elsewhere and find out."

I went into a palace, tile-floored, cherub-ceilinged and square with
the cop. I put my foot on the brass rail and said to Billy Magnus,
the best bartender in the diocese:

"Billy, you've lived in New York a long time--what kind of a
song-and-dance does this old town give you? What I mean is, doesn't
the gab of it seem to kind of bunch up and slide over the bar to you
in a sort of amalgamated tip that hits off the burg in a kind of an
epigram with a dash of bitters and a slice of--"

"Excuse me a minute," said Billy, "somebody's punching the button at
the side door."

He went away; came back with an empty tin bucket; again vanished with
it full; returned and said to me:

"That was Mame. She rings twice. She likes a glass of beer for
supper. Her and the kid. If you ever saw that little skeesicks
of mine brace up in his high chair and take his beer and-- But,
say, what was yours? I get kind of excit