The Metropolis | Page 7

owners, and
you--fools--fools --fools!"
The man's voice had mounted to a scream, and he flung his hands into
the air and broke into jeering laughter. Then came another train, and
Montague could not hear him; but he could see that he was rushing on
in the torrent of his denunciation.
Montague stood rooted to the spot; he was shocked to the depths of his
being--he could scarcely contain himself as he stood there. He longed
to spring forward to beard the man where he stood, to shout him down,
to rebuke him before the crowd.
The Major must have seen his agitation, for he took his arm and led
him back from the throng, saying: "Come! We can't help it."
"But--but--," he protested, "the police ought to arrest him."
"They do sometimes," said the Major, "but it doesn't do any good."
They walked on, and the sounds of the shrill voice died away. "Tell
me," said Montague, in a low voice, "does that go on very often?"
"Around the comer from where I live," said the other, "it goes on every
Saturday night."
"And do the people listen?" he asked.
"Sometimes they can't keep the street clear," was the reply.
And again they walked in silence. At last Montague asked, "What does
it mean?"
The Major shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps another civil war," said he.

CHAPTER II

Allan Momtague's father had died about five years before. A couple of

years later his younger brother, Oliver, had announced his intention of
seeking a career in New York. He had no profession, and no definite
plans; but his father's friends were men of influence and wealth, and the
doors were open to him. So he had turned his share of the estate into
cash and departed.
Oliver was a gay and pleasure-loving boy, with all the material of a
prodigal son in him; his brother had more than half expected to see him
come back in a year or two with empty pockets. But New York had
seemed to agree with Oliver. He never told what he was doing--what he
wrote was simply that he was managing to keep the wolf from the door.
But his letters hinted at expensive ways of life; and at Christmas time,
and at Cousin Alice's birthday, he would send home presents which
made the family stare.
Montague had always thought of himself as a country lawyer and
planter. But two months ago a fire had swept away the family mansion,
and then on top of that had come an offer for the land; and with Oliver
telegraphing several times a day in his eagerness, they had taken the
sudden resolution to settle up their affairs and move to New York.
There were Montague and his mother, and Cousin Alice, who was
nineteen, and old "Mammy Lucy," Mrs. Montague's servant. Oliver had
met them at Jersey City, radiant with happiness. He looked just as
much of a boy as ever, and just as beautiful; excepting that he was a
little paler, New York had not changed him at all. There was a man in
uniform from the hotel to take charge of their baggage, and a big red
touring-car for them; and now they were snugly settled in their
apartments, with the younger brother on duty as counsellor and guide.
Montague had come to begin life all over again. He had brought his
money, and he expected to invest it, and to live upon the income until
he had begun to earn something. He had worked hard at his profession,
and he meant to work in New York, and to win his way in the end. He
knew almost nothing about the city--he faced it with the wide-open
eyes of a child.
One began to learn quickly, he found. It was like being swept into a
maelstrom: first the hurrying throngs on the ferry-boat, and then the
cabmen and the newsboys shouting, and the cars with clanging gongs;
then the swift motor, gliding between trucks and carriages and around
corners where big policemen shepherded the scurrying populace; and

then Fifth Avenue, with its rows of shops and towering hotels; and at
last a sudden swing round a corner--and their home.
"I have picked a quiet family place for you," Oliver had said, and that
had greatly pleased his brother. But he had stared in dismay when he
entered this latest "apartment hotel"--which catered for two or three
hundred of the most exclusive of the city's aristocracy--and noted its
great arcade, with massive doors of bronze, and its entrance-hall,
trimmed with Caen stone and Italian marble, and roofed with a vaulted
ceiling painted by modern masters. Men in livery bore their wraps and
bowed the way before them; a great bronze elevator shot them to the
proper floor;