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ADVENTURES AT LUNCH TIME

This window by which we sit is really very trying to our spirit.  On a clear fluid blue day the sunlight pours over the cliffs and craggy coves and angles of the great buildings round St. Paul’s churchyard.  We can see the temptation of being a cubist painter as we study all those intersecting planes of light and shadow.  Across the way, on Fulton Street, above the girl in a green hat who is just now ingurgitating a phial of orangeade, there are six different roof levels, rising like steps toward the gold lightning bolts of the statue on top of the Telephone and Telegraph Building.  Each of these planes carries its own particular impact of light or shadow.  The sunshine seems to flow like an impalpable cataract over the top of the Hudson Terminal, breaking and shining in a hundred splashes and pools of brightness among the stone channels below.  Far down the course of Church Street we can see the top floors of the Whitehall Building.  We think of the little gilt ball that darts and dances so merrily in the fountain jet in front of that building.  We think of the merry mercators of the Whitehall Club sitting at lunch on the cool summit of that great edifice.  We think of the view as seen from there, the olive-coloured gleam of the water, the ships and tugs speckled about the harbour.  And, looking down, we can see a peaceful gentleman sitting on a bench in St. Paul’s graveyard, reading a book.  We think seriously of writing a note, “What are you reading?” and weighting it with an inkwell and hurling it down to him.  This window continually draws our mind outward and sets us speculating, when we ought to be answering letters or making inquiries of coal dealers as to whether there is any chance of getting a supply for next winter.

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On such a day, having in mind that we ought to write another chapter of our book “How to Spend Three Hours at Lunch Time,” we issued forth with Endymion to seek refreshment.  It was a noontide to stir even the most carefully fettered bourgeois to impulses of escapade and foray.  What should we do?  At first we had some thought of showing to Endymion the delightful subterranean passage that leads from the cathedral grottoes of the Woolworth Building to the City Hall subway station, but we decided we could not bear to leave the sunlight.  So we chose a path at random and found ourselves at the corner of Beekman and Gold streets.

Now our intention was to make tracks toward Hanover Square and there to consider the world as viewed over the profile of a slab of cheesecake; but on viewing the agreeable old house at the corner of Gold Street—­“The Old Beekman, Erected 1827,” once called the Old Beekman Halfway House, but now the Old Beekman Luncheonette—­no hungry man in his senses could pass without tarrying.  A flavour of comely and respectable romance was apparent