Mr. Martin, in remembering interesting episodes, forgot that trifling incident—­the Spanish-American War, in 1898.  Whether because of his early connections with Panama (there were countless Spaniards and Mexicans who patronised the hotel at that time) or whether because of a national and political misunderstanding, he was justifiably and seriously concerned as to the feeling of New York for the Hotel Martin.  Many good and wise persons expected France to side with Spain, and many others watched curiously to see what Frenchmen in New York would do.

Mr. Martin left them but a short time for speculation.  Today, with our streets aflutter with Allied colours, perhaps we fail to appreciate an individual demonstration such as this—­but at that time there were few banners flying, and Mr. Martin led the patriotic movement with an American flag in every one of the fifty windows of the Hotel Martin and a French flag to top off the whole display!  Perhaps it was the first suggestion, in street decoration, of what has recently proved to be so strong a bond between this nation and France.

If any of you who read have even begun to peer into Bohemian New York you have undoubtedly visited the Lafayette as it is today.  And, if you have, you have undoubtedly seen or perhaps even played the “Lafayette Game.”  It is a weird little game that is played for drinks, and requires quite a bit of skill.  It is well known to all frequenters; the only odd thing is that it is not better known.

“Americans are funny!” laughs Raymond Orteig.  “When I go abroad and see something which is new and different from what has been before, my instinct is to get hold of it and bring it back.  If I can I bring it back in actual bulk; if I were a writer I would bring it back in another way.  But through these years, while everyone has played our absurd little game, no one has ever suggested writing about it—­until tonight!”

Its name?  It is Culbuto.  That is French,—­practically applied,—­for failure!  It is, you see, an effort to keep the little balls from falling into the wrong holes.  As it so often results in failure Culbuto is an ideal game to play for drinks!  Someone has to pay all the time!  It is an unequal contest between the individual and the law of gravity!

But we must not linger too long at the Lafayette, alluring though it may be.  All Greenwich is beckoning to us, a few blocks away.  We have a new world to explore—­the world below Fourteenth Street.

Fourteenth Street is the boundary line which marks the Greenwich Village’s utmost city limits, as it marked those of our great-grandfathers.  Like a wall it stands across the town separating the new from the old uncompromisingly.  Miss Euphemia Olcott, who has been quoted here before, describes the evolution of Fourteenth Street in the following interesting way: