ng parties,
generally to the damage of one's harness and temper. But until the day
before, when he had stepped off the ferry, Montague had never ridden in
a motor-car. Riding in this one was like travelling in a dream--it slid
along without a sound, or the slightest trace of vibration; it shot
forward, it darted to right or to left, it slowed up, it stopped, as if
of its own will--the driver seemed to do nothing. Such things as car
tracks had no effect upon it at all, and serious defects in the
pavement caused only the faintest swelling motion; it was only when it
leaped ahead like a living thing that one felt the power of it, by the
pressure upon his back.

They went at what seemed to Montague a breakneck pace through the city
streets, dodging among trucks and carriages, grazing cars, whirling
round corners, taking the wildest of chances. Oliver seemed always to
know what the other fellow would do; but the thought that he might do
something different kept his companion's heart pounding in a painful
way. Once the latter cried out as a man leapt for his life; Oliver
laughed, and said, without turning his head, "You'll get used to it by
and by."

They went down Fourth Avenue and turned into the Bowery. Elevated
trains pounded overhead, and a maze of gin-shops, dime-museums, cheap
lodging-houses, and clothing-stores sped past them. Once or twice
Oliver's hawk-like glance detected a blue uniform ahead, and then they
slowed down to a decorous pace, and the other got a chance to observe
the miserable population of the neighbourhood. It was a cold November
day, and an "out of work" time, and wretched outcast men walked with
shoulders drawn forward and hands in their pockets.

"Where in the world are we going?" Montague asked.

"To Long Island," said the other. "It's a beastly ride--this part of
it--but it's the only way. Some day we'll have an overhead speedway of
our own, and we won't have to drive through this mess."

They turned off at the approach to the Williamsburg Bridge, and found
the street closed for repairs. They had to make a detour of a block,
and they turned with a vicious sweep and plunged into the very heart of
the tenement district. Narrow, filthy streets, with huge, canon-like
blocks of buildings, covered with rusty iron fire-escapes and decorated
with soap-boxes and pails and laundry and babies; narrow stoops,
crowded with playing children; grocery-shops, clothing-shops, saloons;
and a maze of placards