The Major must have seen his agitation, for he took his arm and led him back from the throng, saying:  “Come!  We can’t help it.”

“But—­but—­,” he protested, “the police ought to arrest him.”

“They do sometimes,” said the Major, “but it doesn’t do any good.”

They walked on, and the sounds of the shrill voice died away.  “Tell me,” said Montague, in a low voice, “does that go on very often?”

“Around the comer from where I live,” said the other, “it goes on every Saturday night.”

“And do the people listen?” he asked.

“Sometimes they can’t keep the street clear,” was the reply.

And again they walked in silence.  At last Montague asked, “What does it mean?”

The Major shrugged his shoulders.  “Perhaps another civil war,” said he.

CHAPTER II

Allan Momtague’s father had died about five years before.  A couple of years later his younger brother, Oliver, had announced his intention of seeking a career in New York.  He had no profession, and no definite plans; but his father’s friends were men of influence and wealth, and the doors were open to him.  So he had turned his share of the estate into cash and departed.

Oliver was a gay and pleasure-loving boy, with all the material of a prodigal son in him; his brother had more than half expected to see him come back in a year or two with empty pockets.  But New York had seemed to agree with Oliver.  He never told what he was doing—­what he wrote was simply that he was managing to keep the wolf from the door.  But his letters hinted at expensive ways of life; and at Christmas time, and at Cousin Alice’s birthday, he would send home presents which made the family stare.

Montague had always thought of himself as a country lawyer and planter.  But two months ago a fire had swept away the family mansion, and then on top of that had come an offer for the land; and with Oliver telegraphing several times a day in his eagerness, they had taken the sudden resolution to settle up their affairs and move to New York.

There were Montague and his mother, and Cousin Alice, who was nineteen, and old “Mammy Lucy,” Mrs. Montague’s servant.  Oliver had met them at Jersey City, radiant with happiness.  He looked just as much of a boy as ever, and just as beautiful; excepting that he was a little paler, New York had not changed him at all.  There was a man in uniform from the hotel to take charge of their baggage, and a big red touring-car for them; and now they were snugly settled in their apartments, with the younger brother on duty as counsellor and guide.

Montague had come to begin life all over again.  He had brought his money, and he expected to invest it, and to live upon the income until he had begun to earn something.  He had worked hard at his profession, and he meant to work in New York, and to win his way in the end.  He knew almost nothing about the city—­he faced it with the wide-open eyes of a child.