On the street corners
were saloons that deserved no better name than common groggeries.
They were all vicious looking joints and uniformly seemed to
violate the law about closing. The fact was that they impressed
one as though it would be as much as one's life was worth even to
enter them with respectable looking clothes on.
The further we proceeded into the tortuous twists of streets that
stamp the old Greenwich village with a character all its own, the
worse it seemed to get. Decrepit relics of every style of
architecture from almost the earliest times in the city stood out
in the darkness, like so many ghosts.
"Anyone who would run a garage down here," remarked Garrick,
"deserves to be arrested on sight."
"Except possibly for commercial vehicles," I ventured, looking at
the warehouses here and there.
"There are no commercial vehicles out at this hour," added Garrick
dryly.
At last our cab turned down a street that was particularly dark.
"This is it," announced Garrick, tapping on the glass for the
driver to stop at the corner.
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