On the last flight he met Mr. Emery of Emery & Emery who had their offices on the first floor.
“Well Mr. Baldwin how’s things?” Mr. Emery of Emery & Emery was a flatfaced man with gray hair and eyebrows and a protruding wedgeshaped jaw. “Pretty well sir, pretty well.”
“They tell me you are doing mighty well. … Something about the New York Central Railroad.”
“Oh Simsbury and I settled it out of court.”
“Humph,” said Mr. Emery of Emery & Emery.
As they were about to part in the street Mr. Emery said suddenly “Would you care to dine with me and my wife some time?”
“Why … er … I’d be delighted.”
“I like to see something of the younger fellows in the profession you understand. … Well I’ll drop you a line. … Some evening next week. It would give us a chance to have a chat.”
Baldwin shook a blueveined hand in a shinystarched cuff and went off down Maiden Lane hustling with a springy step through the noon crowd. On Pearl Street he climbed a steep flight of black stairs that smelt of roasting coffee and knocked on a groundglass door.
“Come in,” shouted a bass voice. A swarthy man lanky in his shirtsleeves strode forward to meet him. “Hello George, thought you were never comin’. I’m hongry as hell.”
“Phil I’m going to set you up to the best lunch you ever ate in your life.”
“Well I’m juss waitin’ to be set.”
Phil Sandbourne put on his coat, knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the corner of a draftingtable, and shouted into a dark inner office, “Goin out to eat, Mr. Specker.”
“All right go ahead,” replied a goaty quavering from the inner office.
“How’s the old man?” asked Baldwin as they went out the door.
“Ole Specker? Bout on his last legs … but he’s been thataway for years poa ole soul. Honest George I’d feel mighty mean if anythin happened to poa ole Specker. … He’s the only honest man in the city of New York, an he’s got a head on his shoulders too.”
“He’s never made anything much by it,” said Baldwin.
“He may yet. … He may yet. … Man you ought to see his plans for allsteel buildins. He’s got an idea the skyscraper of the future’ll be built of steel and glass. We’ve been experimenting with vitrous tile recently … cristamighty some of his plans would knock yer eye out. … He’s got a great sayin about some Roman emperor who found Rome of brick and left it of marble. Well he says he’s found New York of brick an that he’s goin to leave it of steel … steel an glass. I’ll have to show you his project for a rebuilt city. It’s some pipedream.”
They settled on a cushioned bench in the corner of the restaurant that smelled of steak and the grill. Sandbourne stretched his legs out under the table.
“Wow this is luxury,” he said.
“Phil let’s have a cocktail,” said Baldwin from behind the bill of fare. “I tell you Phil, it’s the first five years that’s the hardest.”
“You needn’t worry George, you’re the hustlin kind. … I’m the ole stick in the mud.”
“I don’t see why, you can always get a job as a draftsman.”
“That’s a fine future I muss say, to spend ma life with the corner of a draftintable stuck in ma bally. … Christ-amighty man!”
“Well Specker and Sandbourne may be a famous firm yet.”
“People’ll be goin round in flyin machines by that time an you and me’ll be laid out with our toes to the daisies.”
“Here’s luck anyway.”
“Here’s lead in yer pencil, George.”
They drank down the Martinis and started eating their oysters.
“I wonder if it’s true that oysters turn to leather in your stomach when you drink alcohol with em.”
“Search me. … Say by the way Phil how are you getting on with that little stenographer you were taking out?”
“Man the food an drink an theaters I’ve wasted on that lil girl. … She’s got me run to a standstill. … Honest she has. You’re a sensible feller, George, to keep away from the women.”
“Maybe,” said Baldwin slowly and spat an olive stone into his clenched fist.
The first thing they heard was the quavering whistle that came from a little wagon at the curb opposite the entrance to the ferry. A small boy broke away from the group of immigrants that lingered in the ferryhouse and ran over to the little wagon.
“Sure it’s like a steam engine an its fulla monkeynuts,” he yelled running back.
“Padraic you stay here.”
“And this here’s the L station, South Ferry,” went on Tim Halloran who had come down to meet them. “Up thataway’s Battery Park an Bowling Green an Wall Street an th’ financial district. … Come along Padraic your Uncle Timothy’s goin to take ye on th’ Ninth Avenoo L.”
There were only three people left at the ferrylanding, an old woman with a blue handkerchief on her head and a young woman with a magenta shawl, standing at either end of a big corded trunk studded with brass tacks; and an old man with a greenish stub of a beard and a face lined and twisted like the root of a dead oak. The old woman was whimpering with wet eyes: “Dove andiamo Madonna mia, Madonna mia?” The young woman was unfolding a letter blinking at the ornate writing. Suddenly she went over to the old man, “Non posso leggere,” holding out the letter to him. He wrung his hands, letting his head roll back and forth, saying over and over again something she couldn’t understand. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled and went back to the trunk. A Sicilian with sideburns was talking to the old woman. He grabbed the trunk by its cord and pulled it over to a spring wagon with a white horse that stood across the street. The two women followed the trunk. The Sicilian held out his hand to the young woman. The old woman still muttering and whimpering hoisted herself painfully onto
