"What part of New York?"
"New York, New York." The answer was parrot-like. Someone laughed.
"Ask him what part of the Empire State he hails from?" suggested
another. The question was put in simpler form, but it proved too much
for the Islander. He stammered, stuttered, waved his hand uncertainly
toward the ocean. Perceiving that he was the butt of public jest, he
broke out of the line and made off as fast as his long legs could
transport him.
The man whose whispered promptings had proved unavailing, fell sullenly
into the background, after venomous glance at the successful objector.
Benito caught his eyes under the dripping crown of a wide-brimmed slouch
hat. They seemed to him vaguely familiar. Almost instinctively his hand
sought the pocket in which his derringer reposed. Then, with a laugh, he
dismissed the matter. He had no quarrel with the fellow; that murderous
look was aimed at Henry Mellus, not at him. So he cast his ballot
and went out.
Opposite the Square he paused to note the progress of rehabilitation in
the burned area. It was less than a fortnight since he had stood there
feverishly passing buckets of water in a fight against the flames, but
already most of the evidences of conflagration were hidden behind the
framework of new buildings.
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