"Likewise on a journey especially of a business nature, one should keep clearly in mind the exact order of destination, choosing the most urgent first."
Destination first. "Temple Bar" where one may find the Portia Person who long ago promised to help should one ever be "in Trouble."
Destination second. The address at the bottom of a grimy handbill that announced "To be sold at auction for unpaid taxes—By the order of J. K. Harlow, Justice of the—"
Destination really! Eighteen Columbia Heights!
"First," Felicia at least began her thinking clearly, "I shall go to see the Judge and I shall say 'Don't sell Grandy's house because Certain Legal Matters hasn't attended to things. Just wait. I know another lawyer, he's in Temple Bar. He will attend to everything.' Oh no! First I'll go find the Portia Person and while he is attending to everything I will send a letter to Dudley Hamilt's house—then I will go to Grandy's house and wait for Dudley Hamilt to come—oh! oh! Babiche—I can't arrange things clearly in mind, I can't no matter how I try! Only I must—"
So over and over to the roar of the train she tried to drill herself.
"First the Portia Person—then the Judge—"
It was nine o'clock in the morning when, tired and bewildered, she emerged from the subway at Borough Hall, Brooklyn. The little hand, that "had never spread itself over a doorknob or a fire-iron or any clumsy thing" struggled valiantly with the russet bag; the new Babiche, cramped and shaken from her day and night of travel, poked her snubby nose from under the traveling coat and sniffed and squeakingly yawned. Louisa's bonnet had worked itself askew, the sharp wind from the river was flapping the heavy clothing about her slender ankles and displaying the outlandish old "Congress gaiter" shoes. A distressed and ridiculous figure, she stood and shuddered at the roar of the elevated above her and the jangle of the surface cars that clattered past her and trembled at the disconcerting honk of the motors that barely escaped crushing her.
Officer Brennan, pompously regulating the congested traffic watched the grotesque person on the curbstone and chuckled.
"For the love of hivin," he thought, "Thim movie actors will dress like annything for the money—" and glanced about automatically to see the camera man. But something in the terror of the little woman's glance flashed over the crowded crossing to his warm Irish heart, "Hullo, she's no acterine!" He ploughed through the river of travel and caught at her arm and felt her slight weight sag against him. "Annybody as turned her loose—" he continued his soliloquy after he'd jollied a newsboy into escorting her across to the Temple Bar Building, "Ought to be sent up—" He vented his disgust at the "annybody" on a daring chauffeur and watched until the newsboy came panting back to his stand to nod a triumphant grinning affirmative "'Nd her head up in the air like a queen—" he held his own head regally to signal the cross-town traffic, "Queer lot!" and forgot her.