The sight unnerved Hamilton.  He clutched the reporter’s arm.

“Chinese, Camorrists, sweatshop workers, and negroes!” he cried, a hysterical note in his voice.  “Are there no Americans in an American city?”

The reporter grasped his shoulder and pointed to where, a block or two away, the towering framework of a Titanic building pierced the sunlit air, far above the sordid savagery of the human rat-holes near by.  Guiding monster beams into place, sure-set upon the frailest foothold, forms of men, made tiny by the distance, were silhouetted against the sky.

“The post of honor is the post of danger,” he said; “it is in work like that, where skill is linked to daring, where brain is joined to nerve, that the Yankee stands.  If you want to see the American in America, don’t look down, look up!”

[Illustration:  WORK FOR AMERICANS.  Where skill and nerve and endurance are required is where the true American is found. (Copyright by Brown Bros.)]

THE END