“I don’t like it much,” said Loring.  “It’s a bad sign.  My experience is that it’s hard to overreach a man that isn’t on the hog himself.  When they’re eager to annex something dishonestly you get ’em every time.  Maybe you’ll lose him.  Why didn’t you stay with him?  He may not go to the Cornucopia at all.”

“Oh, yes, he will!” said Mitchell confidently.  “I am going to play him for all he’s worth, and I want him to feel sure I’m O.K.  It might make him suspicious if I kept at his coat tails.  Plenty of time.  I won’t even look him up to-morrow.  Rig the old joint as my office, and wait there till he hunts me up.  Let him make all the advances, d’ye see?  Teach him bridge, on the square, at night.  Let him win a little—­just enough to keep him satisfied with himself—­you’ll see.  Wait till he draws his wad, and we’ll throw the gaff in him to the queen’s taste.  If he won’t nibble at one hook try another.  But, I say, Billy, you’ll have to furnish the scads for bait, in case he don’t? rise to something easy.  I know you’re flush from that Manning job.”

* * * * *

Meantime, with unspoiled and sparkling eye, the inlander saw, broad sweeping before him, mist-bordered, dream-vast, dim-seen beneath the lowering sky, the magic city whose pulsings send and call a nation’s life-blood.

The salt tang of the sea was in his nostrils; greetings, many-keyed, hoarse-whistled by plying craft, were in his ears; creamy-foamed wakes of turbulent keels, swift-sent or laboring, boiled their swirling splendor against the black water.  Mysterious, couchant, straining, the bulwarked city rode the waves; a mighty ship, her funnels the great buildings beyond, where sullen streamers of smoke trailed motionless and darkling; the indescribable, multitudinous hum of the city’s blended voices for purring of monster engines, deep in her hold; bold and high, her restless prow swung seaward in majestic curve, impatient to beat to open main.

This simple young man actually found impressiveness, glamour, even beauty, in this eye-filling canvas; the crowding of crashing lights and interwoven shadows, massed, innumerable, bewildering; the turmoil of confused and broken line, sprawled with tremendous carelessness for a giant’s delight.

Plainer proof of his utter unsophistication could not be.  For it is traditional with, all “correct” and well-informed folk that New York is hopelessly ugly.  It gives one such a superior air to disprize with easy scorn this greatest of the Gateways of the World.

Chapter IV

    “A good plot, good friends, and full of expectation: 
    an excellent plot, very good friends.”