The Easiest Way | Page 2

to be heard, yet no one seemed to object. Everybody was happy.
New York was merely enjoying itself.
The rush was at its height, when two young men, perhaps weary of
being buffeted by the throngs that still pushed up Broadway, turned
sharply to the right and entered a fashionable all-night café. Halting for

a moment in the richly-carpeted and mirrored vestibule to divest
themselves of their outer garments, they pocketed the brass checks
handed out by a dapper page and passing on into the restaurant, quietly
took seats in an out-of-the-way corner.
The place was already well filled. Nearly all of the small, round tables,
crowded too close for comfort, were taken, and the loud chatter of men
and women, the handling of dishes, the going and coming of waiters,
the more or less labored efforts of a tzigane orchestra--all this made a
hubbub as loud as that in the busy street without. The people eating and
drinking were of the kind usually to be found in Broadway's pleasure
resorts--rich men-about-town spending their money freely, hard-faced,
square-jawed gamblers touting for business, callow youths having their
first fling in metropolitan vice, motor-car parties taking in the sights,
old roués seeking new sensations, faultlessly dressed wine agents
promoting the sale of their particular brands, a few actors, a sprinkling
of actresses of secondary importance, a bevy of chorus girls of the
"broiler" type, a number of self-styled "grass widows" living quietly,
but luxuriously on the generosity of discreet male admirers, and others
still prettier, who made no secret of their calling, but insolently boasted
of their profession being the most ancient in the world.
Sartorially at least, the company was eminently respectable. The men,
for the most part, wore evening dress and the women were visions of
feminine loveliness, in the latest creations of Paris modistes--gowns a
duchess might envy, hats that would tempt the virtue of a saint. All
were talking loudly, and laughing hilariously as they ate and drank,
while pale-faced, perspiring waiters ran here and there with steaming
chafing dishes and silver buckets of frozen "wine." Here champagne
was king! The frothy, golden, bubbling, hissing stuff seemed to be the
only beverage called for. No one counted the cost. Supplied with fat
purses, all flung themselves into a reckless orgy of high living and
ordered without reckoning. It was the gay rendezvous of the girls and
the Johnnies, the sporting men and the roués--in a word, the nightly
bacchanal of New York qui s'amuse. In the atmosphere, heavily
charged with tobacco smoke, floated a strange, indefinable perfume--an
odor in which the vulgar smell of cooking struggled for the mastery

with the subtle essences used by voluptuous women. Instantly,
animalism was aroused, the passions were inflamed. The mouth
watered for luscious mets concocted by expensive chefs, the eye was
dazzled by snowy linen, glistening crystal and the significant smiles of
red-lipped wantons, the ear was entranced by the dulcet strains of
sensuous music. In short, a dangerous resort for any man, young or old.
It was the Flesh Market, the public mart, to which the frail sisterhood
came in droves to sell their beauty. The sirens of Manhattan, lineal
descendants of the legendary sisters who, with their songs, lured the
ancient mariners to their doom, were there by the hundred, decked out
in all the expensive finery that individual taste could suggest and their
purses pay for. They were of all types--blonde and brunette, tall and
petite, stout and slender--to meet every demand. Mostly young they
were; some still in their teens. That was the tragedy of it. Older women
had no place there.
Fresh arrivals poured in from the Broadway entrance. Everybody
appeared to be acquainted with everyone else; familiar greetings were
exchanged right and left. "Hello, Jack!" "Howdy, May!" "Sit down here,
Grace!" The waiters rushed away to fill orders for more wine, the
orchestra struck up another lively air, the whole establishment vibrated
with bustle and excitement.
The two young men watched the animated scene. To one of them at
least, it was all novel and strange, a phase of life to which, heretofore,
he had been a stranger. John Madison had seen little of gilded vice in
the big cities. Although he had knocked about the world a great deal
and taken active part in many a stirring scene he had always been a
clean man. Born and bred on a Dakota farm, he was still the typical
country boy, big and vigorous in physique, with a sane, wholesome
outlook on things.
When his mother--a penniless widow--died he was adopted by a
tyrannical uncle, a miserly farmer, who made him do chores around the
homestead in return for his keep. But the boy detested farming. His
young soul yearned for a glimpse of the great outside world,