At another point a party of club men, who have come down town from their
Fifth avenue haunt, stand discussing the terrible events.
"Do you remember the night that the news was received here that Lincoln has been shot?" asks a patriarchal New Yorker of an equally ancient citizen.
"Indeed I do. You and I were at the Niblo's Garden, weren't we?"
"That's right. It's strange that history should repeat itself; and that we should be together to-night?"
"There is quite a difference between the murder of Lincoln and this series of crimes," observes one of the younger men. "This night's, or rather day's, work is aimed at all classes of wealth. It is evident that it is an attack on capital. And the inexplicable part of the news is, that in every instance the murderers have cheated the gallows."
"Come, move on there," gruffly shouts a policeman.
"Hallo, Mason," cries one of the club men as he pushes his way to the side of the policeman.
"O! How do you do, Mr. Castor," says the blue-coat, in deferential tone.
"Mason, these are my friends; we want to stand here for a few minutes.
It's all right, isn't it?"
"Certainly, it's all right. I thought that you were a lot of the idle crowd, sir, and we have had orders to keep everyone on the move. But you're all right."