Money-making, indeed, Canal Street looked. Long processions of trucks rolled up and down it, giving motorists more time than they desired to look about. All around them, as the car moved slowly on, were warehouses, new and old cheek by jowl together; commission merchants, their produce spilled over the sidewalk; noisy freight yards, with spur-tracks running off to shipping-rooms of all descriptions; occasional empty ground used as dumps, littered with ashes and old tin cans; over all a thousand smells, each more undelectable than the last.
But April! You might as well say in another life. How could she ever get through the days till then?...
"I'm glad you're interested," she said aloud, sharply, thinking that this was exactly what came of giving a lift to the Cooneys. "I think it's simply disgusting.... Get us through this, William."
"It's familiar, at any rate. Let's see. Dunbar must be the next street over but one, isn't it?"
Cally, lifting a handkerchief to obliterate the adjacent odors of a gas-tank, said: "I haven't the smallest idea."
"Why, don't you like the rattle of business, Cally? Don't you like the bustle, the fine democratic air?--Why, hello! There's V.V.!"
Carlisle's head turned at once.
"He's signalling us," said Hen, waving back; and she nervily added: "Stop, William!"
Following Henrietta Cooney's look, Carlisle's eyes fell, sure enough, upon the tall figure of Dr. Vivian crossing the humming side-street straight toward them. Her glance caught him in the act of removing his derby, bowing in response to the cheeky salute of Hen....
"Ah, he's using a cane," added Hen, below her breath. "That means his foot is bad...."