"Oh, dad," he said, beaming upon me from the crack, "it'll be a stunner! You'll see."
It was.
VI
AN OLD FRIEND OF OURS
O
h, I know the town," I had told them confidently—had I not been there in 18—? But no, it was not my town. It was not my New York at all that we found at our journey's end, but belonged apparently to the mob we fell among bags and bundles, by the station steps, till from our cabman's manner, when I mildly marvelled at the fare he charged us, the place, I suspected, belonged to him. Four days and nights we heard it rumbling about us. Robin got a mote in his eye, Letitia lost her brand-new parasol, and I broke my glasses—but we saw the parks and the squares and the tall buildings and the statue which Johnny Keats never climbed. Reluctantly, for the day was waning as we stood on the Battery looking out at it across the bay, we followed his example. On the third afternoon Letitia proposed a change of plans. Her eyes, she confessed, were a little tired with our much looking. Why not hunt old friends?
"Old friends?" I asked. "Whom do we know in New York, Letitia?"
"Why, don't you remember Hiram Ptolemy and Peggy Neal?"