"Yes, I am cured," Tavernake answered, "cured of that and a great
many other things, thanks to you. You found me the right tonic."
"Tonic," Pritchard repeated, meditatively. "That reminds me.
This way for the best cocktail in New York." . . .
The night was not to pass, however, without its own especial
thrill for Tavernake. The two men dined together at Delmonico's
and went afterwards to a roof garden, a new form of entertainment
for Tavernake, and one which interested him vastly. They secured
one of the outside tables near the parapets, and below them New
York stretched, a flaming phantasmagoria of lights and crude
buildings. Down the broad avenues with their towering blocks,
their street cars striking fire all the time like toys below, the
people streamed like insects away to the Hudson, where the great
ferry boats, ablaze with lights, went screaming across the dark
waters. Tavernake leaned over and forgot. There was so much
that was amazing in this marvelous city for a man who had only
just begun to find himself.
The orchestra, stationed within a few yards of him, commenced to
play a popular waltz, and Pritchard to talk. Tavernake turned
his fascinated eyes from the prospect below.
"My young friend," Pritchard said, "you are up against it
to-night. Take a drink of your wine and then brace yourself."
Tavernake did as he was told.
"What is this danger?" he asked. "What's wrong, anyway?"
Pritchard had no need to answer.
Pages:
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352