They went down Fourth Avenue and turned into the Bowery.  Elevated trains pounded overhead, and a maze of gin-shops, dime-museums, cheap lodging-houses, and clothing-stores sped past them.  Once or twice Oliver’s hawk-like glance detected a blue uniform ahead, and then they slowed down to a decorous pace, and the other got a chance to observe the miserable population of the neighbourhood.  It was a cold November day, and an “out of work” time, and wretched outcast men walked with shoulders drawn forward and hands in their pockets.

“Where in the world are we going?” Montague asked.

“To Long Island,” said the other.  “It’s a beastly ride—­this part of it—­but it’s the only way.  Some day we’ll have an overhead speedway of our own, and we won’t have to drive through this mess.”

They turned off at the approach to the Williamsburg Bridge, and found the street closed for repairs.  They had to make a detour of a block, and they turned with a vicious sweep and plunged into the very heart of the tenement district.  Narrow, filthy streets, with huge, canon-like blocks of buildings, covered with rusty iron fire-escapes and decorated with soap-boxes and pails and laundry and babies; narrow stoops, crowded with playing children; grocery-shops, clothing-shops, saloons; and a maze of placards and signs in English and German and Yiddish.  Through the throngs Oliver drove, his brows knitted with impatience and his horn honking angrily.  “Take it easy,”—­protested Montague; but the other answered, “Bah!” Children screamed and darted out of the way, and men and women started back, scowling and muttering; when a blockade of wagons and push-carts forced them to stop, the children gathered about and jeered, and a group of hoodlums loafing by a saloon flung ribaldry at them; but Oliver never turned his eyes from the road ahead.

And at last they were out on the bridger.  “Slow vehicles keep to the right,” ran the sign, and so there was a lane for them to the left.  They sped up the slope, the cold air beating upon them like a hurricane.  Far below lay the river, with tugs and ferry-boats ploughing the wind-beaten grey water, and a city spread out on either bank—­a wilderness of roofs, with chimneys sticking up and white jets of steam spouting everywhere.  Then they sped down the farther slope, and into Brooklyn.

There was an asphalted avenue, lined with little residences.  There was block upon block of them, mile after mile of them—­Montague had never, seen so many houses in his life before, and nearly all poured out of the same mould.

Many other automobiles were speeding out by this avenue, and they raced with one another.  The one which was passed the most frequently got the dust and smell; and so the universal rule was that when you were behind you watched for a clear track, and then put on speed, and went to the front; but then just when you had struck a comfortable pace, there was a whirring and a puffing at your left, and your rival came stealing past you.  If you were ugly, you put on speed yourself, and forced him to fall back, or to run the risk of trouble with vehicles coming the other way.  For Oliver there seemed to be but one rule,—­pass everything.