Michael Patrick O'Brien was not a member of the regularly appointed city police force. He was a special, this being his initial exploit.
Oswald viewed numerous objects of interest while awaiting that letter from Sir Donald Randolph. Though aware that through uncertainty of Sir Donald's stay at any particular place there might be prolonged delay, he feels sure that when his letter is received, answer will be prompt.
Often is felt unutterable loneliness. There is nothing like immense crowds of strangers in a strange land to make individual segregation absolute.
At times only that image-something, somehow, from somewhere, reflected into recesses of his consciousness, avails against childish fretting and petulant protest. From outer or inner depths, occasionally come suggestive glimpses and assuring voices.
The first Sabbath after his arrival in New York Oswald attended church. Not since that Northfield visit had this son of a clergyman heard a sermon or prayer.
The familiar ritual of the Episcopal Church is not used, yet responsive chords vibrate to some mystic touch. The church is plain and music faulty. In pulpit utterances there is nothing strikingly trite or profound. The preacher has none of oratorical gifts. Oswald cannot account for his own interest. While those imperfectly sharped and flatted notes are sounding, he wonders if that peculiarly adjusted, harmonious Sense, quickening at scream of seagull or roar of ravenous beast, would not miss these poorly pitched tones more than Gabriel's highest or Creation's ever-echoing oratorio.
Listening to doctrinal directions as to ceremonial observances radically differing from other beliefs, Oswald thinks of the big-hearted Father, tenderly amused at zeal of His children in their many ways of seeking that coveted smile.
Despite these surroundings, the morning's moods had been so comfortable that in the evening Oswald attended services at one of New York's prominent churches, where he listened to grand music by a skillful choir, and a scholarly sermon from an able preacher.
But the emotional key ranged capriciously.
A good-looking assistant, in dictatorial tones, told the world's Helper what was expected. The choir sang well a hymn, the burden of which was expressed in oft-repeated phrase: