I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson.  There’s something or somebody doing all the time.  I’m clearing $8,000 a year selling automatic pumps, and I’m living like kings-up.  Why, yesterday, I was introduced to John W. Gates.  I took an auto ride with a wine agent’s sister.  I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna May play in the evening.  Talk about the West, why, the other night I woke everybody up in the hotel hollering.  I dreamed I was walking on a board sidewalk in Oshkosh.  What have you got against this town, Jack?  There’s only one thing in it that I don’t care for, and that’s a ferryboat.”

The artist gazed dreamily at the cartridge paper on the wall.  “This town,” said he, “is a leech.  It drains the blood of the country.  Whoever comes to it accepts a challenge to a duel.  Abandoning the figure of the leech, it is a juggernaut, a Moloch, a monster to which the innocence, the genius, and the beauty of the land must pay tribute.  Hand to hand every newcomer must struggle with the leviathan.  You’ve lost, Billy.  It shall never conquer me.  I hate it as one hates sin or pestilence or—­the color work in a ten-cent magazine.  I despise its very vastness and power.  It has the poorest millionaires, the littlest great men, the lowest skyscrapers, the dolefulest pleasures of any town I ever saw.  It has caught you, old man, but I will never run beside its chariot wheels.  It glosses itself as the Chinaman glosses his collars.  Give me the domestic finish.  I could stand a town ruled by wealth or one ruled by an aristocracy; but this is one controlled by its lowest ingredients.  Claiming culture, it is the crudest; asseverating its pre-eminence, it is the basest; denying all outside values and virtue, it is the narrowest.  Give me the pure and the open heart of the West country.  I would go back there to-morrow if I could.”

“Don’t you like this filet mignon?” said William.  “Shucks, now, what’s the use to knock the town!  It’s the greatest ever.  I couldn’t sell one automatic pump between Harrisburg and Tommy O’Keefe’s saloon, in Sacramento, where I sell twenty here.  And have you seen Sara Bernhardt in ‘Andrew Mack’ yet?”

“The town’s got you, Billy,” said Jack.

“All right,” said William.  “I’m going to buy a cottage on Lake Ronkonkoma next summer.”

At midnight Jack raised his window and sat close to it.  He caught his breath at what he saw, though he had seen and felt it a hundred times.

Far below and around lay the city like a ragged purple dream.  The irregular houses were like the broken exteriors of cliffs lining deep gulches and winding streams.  Some were mountainous; some lay in long, desert canons.  Such was the background of the wonderful, cruel, enchanting, bewildering, fatal, great city.  But into this background were cut myriads of brilliant parallelograms and circles and squares through which glowed many colored lights.  And out of the violet and purple depths ascended like