"
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 and signs in English
and German and Yiddish.
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