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Updated: May 18, 2025
And then there was a little river, crooked as a pot-hook, that crawled through the middle of the town, crossed by a hundred little bridges so nearly alike that they got on Curly's nerves. And the last bartender wore a number nine shoe. The saloon stood on a corner. The hour was eight o'clock. Homefarers and outgoers jostled Curly on the narrow stone sidewalk.
When the homefarers from office and factory had begun to tarnish the brilliance of this show, when the women had begun to scatter this one to dinner with her man, that one back to the hall-room supper by whose economies she saved for her Saturday afternoon vanities Bertram and Mark drifted with the current up Kearney street toward the Hotel Marseillaise.
Homefarers and outgoers jostled Curly on the narrow stone sidewalk. Between the buildings to his left he looked down a cleft that proclaimed itself another thoroughfare. The alley was dark except for one patch of light. Where there was light there were sure to be human beings. Where there were human beings after nightfall in San Antonio there might be food, and there was sure to be drink.
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