"There's a bunch of the fellows going," said Mr. Batch, standing at the window, looking out over roofs, dilly-dallying up and down on his heels and breaking into a low, contemplative whistle. She was at his shoulder, peering over it. "You wouldn't be afraid, would you, Jimmie?"
"You bet your life I wouldn't."
She was tiptoes now, her arms creeping up to him. "Only my boy's got a wife—a brand-new wifie to support, 'ain't he?"
"That's what he has," said Mr. Batch, stroking her forearm, but still gazing through and beyond whatever roofs he was seeing.
"Jimmie!"
"Huh?"
"Look! We got a view of the Hudson River from our flat, just like we lived on Riverside Drive."
"All the Hudson River I can see is fifteen smoke-stacks and somebody's wash-line out."
"It ain't so. We got a grand view. Look! Stand on tiptoe, Jimmie, like me. There, between that water-tank on that black roof over there and them two chimneys. See? Watch my finger. A little stream of something over there that moves."
"No, I don't see."