Every afternoon, Floyd Garrison occupied a deep chair in the window of his club on upper Fifth Avenue—a privilege inherited by the law of precedence, from his father and grandfather. His great-grandfather was one of the founders of the original club-house which was downtown—an old building with raftered ceilings, wooden models of ships, and a portrait of Peter with the game leg.
In time the “youngsters” of 1850 moved uptown, refurnished in plush, and became very exclusive. They kept people out for lack of pedigree, or difference of religious conviction.
A young scion of the new-rich said enviously to Floyd:
“I spend much more on my tailor than you do; you can afford to wear your old clothes.”
Floyd smiled. He took in the young man—a fighting figure, physically strong, eager, on the alert, with gambler’s eyes.
“You’ve never had to sweat blood for money.”
The expression was coarse, but it threw a mental picture.
“No, I’ve never ‘sweated blood’ for a living.”
“I didn’t say a living, I said money. Any idiot can make a living. A man must have money and lots of it to be anybody; it’s a hot game.”
He wiped his forehead.