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Updated: July 31, 2024
Slowly they came up and drew attention to themselves, silently filching it from Broadway's emblems of business success.
The word that he circulated, as he rattled down to Broadway's store and back, was that Cap'n Sproul and Hiram Look had attacked him with murderous intent, and that after he had bravely fought them off they had wantonly grabbed Mr. Dependence Crymble, jabbed him down a hole in the ground and kicked the hole in on him. "I've always vowed and declared they was both lunatics," cried the returning Mr.
Broadway's gay and thoughtless crowds surged to and fro, from that height merely a thick stream of black figures, like contending columns of ants on the march. And everywhere the monstrous electric signs flared up vivid in white and red and green; and dimmed and paled, only to flash up again. Ring out the Old! Ring in the New!
It's all just a Broadway dream, George. Think of it like that. Broadway's got you now, but you don't really belong. You're not like me. It's not in your blood, so's you can't get it out. It's the chickens and roses you want really. Just a Broadway dream. That's what it is.
Nute, "includin' the front stained-glass winder in the meetin'-house and the big light in Broadway's store. And it all happened because the critter was poked up agin' and I warned ye not to do it, Cap'n." "Would it be satisfactory to the citizens if I pulled my wallet and settled the damage?" inquired the first selectman, with baleful blandness in his tones. Mr.
He reflected with sudden comfort that there was at least one advantage in owning a hotel. It gave a man a chance at his foes. "You're runnin' it, be you?" inquired Mr. Brackett, raising his voice and glancing toward Broadway's store platform where loafers were listening. "That's what we be," shouted the Cap'n.
And detecting further recalcitrancy in the face of his visitor, he pounced on him, scrabbled up a handful of cloth in the back of his coat, and propelled him out of doors and up the street. After a few protesting squawks Mr. Crymble went along. An interested group of men, who had bolted out of Broadway's store, surveyed them as they passed at a brisk pace.
Yet just now, the man whose silent smile could give birth to such sweeping potentialities did nothing more significant than gaze absently at the tide of life which eddied through Broadway's cañon and at the disintegrating tombstones which spoke of death in the shadow of Trinity.
Broadway's full of such human vultures more's the pity and they're giving the stage a bad name. But a woman doesn't have to be bad unless she wants to be. Maybe advancement is quicker by the easiest way, but the good girls get there just the same, if they've talent. Look at the women who have succeeded on the stage and whose name not a breath of scandal has ever touched.
Amid the roar of Broadway's living tide, beneath the shadow of old Trinity Church, a costly monument commemorates his heroic and untimely death. A few days later, the British brig "Boxer," of fourteen guns, surrendered to the U. S. brig "Enterprise," of sixteen guns.
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