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Updated: April 30, 2025
Crossing under the Elevated, he continued along the side of the giant piers and wheeled into a dirt-choked, ill-smelling street, its distant outlet a blaze of electric lights. It was now the dead hour of the twenty-four the hour before the despatch of the millions of journals, damp from the presses. He was the only human being in sight.
There had been several small ones in that vicinity, but this was what Andy termed a "humdinger." There was a stamping and snorting from inside that dirt-choked cavern that, there in that lonely spot on the very edge of night, seemed positively uncanny to the men who stood and listened. "Better get busy, boys," said Andy suddenly.
Despite the typewriter salesman's slangy, easy-going way, he saw underneath a man shrewd, efficient, utterly dependable. And as the sadoe rattled at the heels of the tiny Timor pony along the wide avenue, past the dirt-choked canals of the old port, he fell into rosy, perhaps premature, dreams of the future. Little awakened him with rapid-fire speech. "Selling typewriters out here is easy.
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