experimenting with vitrous tile recently… cristamighty some of his plans would knock yer eye out… He’s got a great sayin about some Roman emperor who found Rome of brick and left it of marble. Well he says he’s found New York of brick an that he’s goin to leave it of steel… steel an glass. I’ll have to show you his project for a rebuilt city. It’s some pipedream.’
They settled on a cushioned bench in the corner of the restaurant that smelled of steak and the grill. Sandbourne stretched his legs out under the table.
‘Wow this is luxury,’ he said.
‘Phil let’s have a cocktail,’ said Baldwin from behind the bill of fare. ‘I tell you Phil, it’s the first five years that’s the hardest.’
‘You needn’t worry George, you’re the hustlin kind… I’m the ole stick in the mud.’
‘I don’t see why, you can always get a job as a draftsman.’
‘That’s a fine future I muss say, to spend ma life with the corner of a draftintable stuck in ma bally… Christamighty man!’
‘Well Specker and Sandbourne may be a famous firm yet.’
‘People’ll be goin round in flyin machines by that time an you and me’ll be laid out with our toes to the daisies.’
‘Here’s luck anyway.’
‘Here’s lead in yer pencil, George.’
They drank down the Martinis and started eating their oysters.
‘I wonder if it’s true that oysters turn to leather in your stomach when you drink alcohol with em.’
‘Search me… Say by the way Phil how are you getting on with that little stenographer you were taking out?’
‘Man the food an drink an theaters I’ve wasted on that lil girl… She’s got me run to a standstill… Honest she has. You’re a sensible feller, George, to keep away from the women.’
‘Maybe,’ said Baldwin slowly and spat an olive stone into his clenched fist.
The first thing they heard was the quavering whistle that came from a little wagon at the curb opposite the entrance to the ferry. A small boy broke away from the group of immigrants that lingered in the ferryhouse and ran over to the little wagon.
‘Sure it’s like a steam engine an its fulla monkeynuts,’ he yelled running back.
‘Padraic you stay here.’
‘And this here’s the L station, South Ferry,’ went on Tim Halloran who had come down to meet them. ‘Up thataway’s Battery Park an Bowling Green an Wall Street an th’ financial district… Come along Padraic your Uncle Timothy’s goin to take ye on th’ Ninth Avenoo L.’
There were only three people left at the ferrylanding, an old woman with a blue handkerchief on her head and a young woman with a magenta shawl, standing at either end of a big corded trunk studded with brass tacks; and an old man with a greenish stub of a beard and a face lined and twisted like the root of a dead oak. The old woman was whimpering with wet eyes: ‘Dove andiamo Madonna mia, Madonna mia?’ The young woman was unfolding a letter blinking at the ornate writing. Suddenly she went over to the old man, ‘Non posso leggere,’ holding out the letter to him. He wrung his hands, letting his head roll back and forth, saying over and over again something she couldn’t understand. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled and went back to the trunk. A Sicilian with sideburns was talking to the old woman. He grabbed the trunk by its cord and pulled it over to a spring wagon with a white horse that stood across the street. The two women followed the trunk. The Sicilian held out his hand to the young woman. The old woman still muttering and whimpering hoisted herself painfully onto the back of the wagon. When the Sicilian leaned over to read the letter he nudged the young woman with his shoulder. She stiffened. ‘Awright,’ he said. Then as he shook the reins on the horse’s back he turned back towards the old woman and shouted, ‘Cinque le due… Awright.’
4 Tracks
The rumpetybump rumpetybump spaced out, slackened; bumpers banged all down the train. The man
They settled on a cushioned bench in the corner of the restaurant that smelled of steak and the grill. Sandbourne stretched his legs out under the table.
‘Wow this is luxury,’ he said.
‘Phil let’s have a cocktail,’ said Baldwin from behind the bill of fare. ‘I tell you Phil, it’s the first five years that’s the hardest.’
‘You needn’t worry George, you’re the hustlin kind… I’m the ole stick in the mud.’
‘I don’t see why, you can always get a job as a draftsman.’
‘That’s a fine future I muss say, to spend ma life with the corner of a draftintable stuck in ma bally… Christamighty man!’
‘Well Specker and Sandbourne may be a famous firm yet.’
‘People’ll be goin round in flyin machines by that time an you and me’ll be laid out with our toes to the daisies.’
‘Here’s luck anyway.’
‘Here’s lead in yer pencil, George.’
They drank down the Martinis and started eating their oysters.
‘I wonder if it’s true that oysters turn to leather in your stomach when you drink alcohol with em.’
‘Search me… Say by the way Phil how are you getting on with that little stenographer you were taking out?’
‘Man the food an drink an theaters I’ve wasted on that lil girl… She’s got me run to a standstill… Honest she has. You’re a sensible feller, George, to keep away from the women.’
‘Maybe,’ said Baldwin slowly and spat an olive stone into his clenched fist.
The first thing they heard was the quavering whistle that came from a little wagon at the curb opposite the entrance to the ferry. A small boy broke away from the group of immigrants that lingered in the ferryhouse and ran over to the little wagon.
‘Sure it’s like a steam engine an its fulla monkeynuts,’ he yelled running back.
‘Padraic you stay here.’
‘And this here’s the L station, South Ferry,’ went on Tim Halloran who had come down to meet them. ‘Up thataway’s Battery Park an Bowling Green an Wall Street an th’ financial district… Come along Padraic your Uncle Timothy’s goin to take ye on th’ Ninth Avenoo L.’
There were only three people left at the ferrylanding, an old woman with a blue handkerchief on her head and a young woman with a magenta shawl, standing at either end of a big corded trunk studded with brass tacks; and an old man with a greenish stub of a beard and a face lined and twisted like the root of a dead oak. The old woman was whimpering with wet eyes: ‘Dove andiamo Madonna mia, Madonna mia?’ The young woman was unfolding a letter blinking at the ornate writing. Suddenly she went over to the old man, ‘Non posso leggere,’ holding out the letter to him. He wrung his hands, letting his head roll back and forth, saying over and over again something she couldn’t understand. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled and went back to the trunk. A Sicilian with sideburns was talking to the old woman. He grabbed the trunk by its cord and pulled it over to a spring wagon with a white horse that stood across the street. The two women followed the trunk. The Sicilian held out his hand to the young woman. The old woman still muttering and whimpering hoisted herself painfully onto the back of the wagon. When the Sicilian leaned over to read the letter he nudged the young woman with his shoulder. She stiffened. ‘Awright,’ he said. Then as he shook the reins on the horse’s back he turned back towards the old woman and shouted, ‘Cinque le due… Awright.’
4 Tracks
The rumpetybump rumpetybump spaced out, slackened; bumpers banged all down the train. The man
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