The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 204 pages of information about The Voice of the City.

“And red running gear?” asked the young man, knitting his brows reflectively.

“Yes.  I always come in that.  Pierre waits for me there.  He supposes me to be shopping in the department store across the square.  Conceive of the bondage of the life wherein we must deceive even our chauffeurs.  Good-night.”

“But it is dark now,” said Mr. Parkenstacker, “and the park is full of rude men.  May I not walk—­”

“If you have the slightest regard for my wishes,” said the girl, firmly, “you will remain at this bench for ten minutes after I have left.  I do not mean to accuse you, but you are probably aware that autos generally bear the monogram of their owner.  Again, good-night.”

Swift and stately she moved away through the dusk.  The young man watched her graceful form as she reached the pavement at the park’s edge, and turned up along it toward the corner where stood the automobile.  Then he treacherously and unhesitatingly began to dodge and skim among the park trees and shrubbery in a course parallel to her route, keeping her well in sight.

When she reached the corner she turned her head to glance at the motor car, and then passed it, continuing on across the street.  Sheltered behind a convenient standing cab, the young man followed her movements closely with his eyes.  Passing down the sidewalk of the street opposite the park, she entered the restaurant with the blazing sign.  The place was one of those frankly glaring establishments, all white paint and glass, where one may dine cheaply and conspicuously.  The girl penetrated the restaurant to some retreat at its rear, whence she quickly emerged without her hat and veil.

The cashier’s desk was well to the front.  A red-haired girl an the stool climbed down, glancing pointedly at the clock as she did so.  The girl in gray mounted in her place.

The young man thrust his hands into his pockets and walked slowly back along the sidewalk.  At the corner his foot struck a small, paper-covered volume lying there, sending it sliding to the edge of the turf.  By its picturesque cover he recognized it as the book the girl had been reading.  He picked it up carelessly, and saw that its title was “New Arabian Nights,” the author being of the name of Stevenson.  He dropped it again upon the grass, and lounged, irresolute, for a minute.  Then he stepped into the automobile, reclined upon the cushions, and said two words to the chauffeur: 

“Club, Henri.”



One may hope, in spite of the metaphorists, to avoid the breath of the deadly upas tree; one may, by great good fortune, succeed in blacking the eye of the basilisk; one might even dodge the attentions of Cerberus and Argus, but no man, alive or dead, can escape the gaze of the Rubberer.

New York is the Caoutchouc City.  There are many, of course, who go their ways, making money, without turning to the right or the left, but there is a tribe abroad wonderfully composed, like the Martians, solely of eyes and means of locomotion.

Project Gutenberg
The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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