The metropolis seems to be inhabited by a race constitutionally untidy, indifferent to dirt, ignorant of beauty, of the elements of civic pride and duty.
For health and comfort alone, tree-shaded streets are a necessity; but in New York there is a strange hostility to trees. The few that survive mutilation by vandals,—animal and human,—are species that ought not to be planted in such a city.
A few miserable elms, distorted poplars, crippled maples, accentuate barren vistas. Lamp posts and fire boxes fill up the iron void, stark as the blasted woods of no-man’s land.
Annan found Coltfoot, the Sunday editor, in his undershirt, drops of sweat spangling the copy he was pencilling.
“You didn’t wait last night,” began Annan.
“What do you think I am!” growled Coltfoot “I need sleep if you don’t.” He picked up a cold cigar, relighted it.
“Do I get your ten or do you get mine?”
“There’s her story,” said Annan, tossing the manuscript onto the desk.
“Is it straight?”
“No, of course not. You yourself said that nothing really ever happens except in the human brain.”