were geese.

IV

The successful navigation of lower Tower Street, at noonday, required
presence of mind on the part of the pedestrian. There were currents and
counter-currents, eddies and backwaters, and at the corner of Vine a
veritable maelstrom through which two lines of electric cars pushed their
way, east and weft, north and south, with incessant clanging of bells;
followed by automobiles with resounding horns, trucks and delivery wagons
with wheels reverberating on the granite. A giant Irish policeman, who
seemed in continual danger of a violent death, and wholly indifferent to
it, stood between the car tracks and halted the rush from time to time,
driving the people like sheep from one side to the other. Through the
doors of Ferguson's poured two conflicting streams of humanity, and
wistful groups of young women, on the way from hasty lunches, blocked the
pavements and stared at the finery behind the plate-glass windows.

The rector, slowly making his way westward, permitted himself to be
thrust hither and thither, halted and shoved on again as he studied the
faces of the throng. And presently he found himself pocketed before one
of the exhibits of feminine interest, momentarily helpless, listening to
the admiring and envious chorus of a bevy of diminutive shop-girls on the
merits of a Paris gown. It was at this moment that he perceived, pushing
towards him with an air of rescue, the figure of his vestryman, Mr.
Wallis Plimpton.

"Well, well, well!" he cried, as he seized Hodder by the arm and pulled
him towards the curb. "What are you doing herein the marts of trade?
Come right along with me to the Eyrie, and we'll have something, to eat."

The Eyrie was a famous lunch club, of limited membership, at the top of
the Parr Building, where financial affairs of the first importance were
discussed and settled.

Hodder explained that he had lunched at half-past twelve.

"Well, step into my office a minute. It does me good, to see you again,
upon my word, and I can't let you get by without a little pow-wow."

Mr. Plimpton's trust company, in Vine Street, resembled a Greek temple.
Massive but graceful granite columns adorned its front, while within it
was partitioned off with polished marble and ornamental grills. In the
rear, guarded by the desks and flanked by the compartments of various
subordinates, was the president's private sanctum, and into this holy of
holies Mr. Plimpton led the way with the simple