Carlo Trent rebounded limply, groaning
between cushions and upholstery. Edward Henry tried to pretend that he
was not frightened. Then there was a shock as of the concussion of
two equally unyielding natures. A pane of glass in Mr. Seven Sachs's
limousine flew to fragments and the car stopped.
"I expect that's a spring gone!" observed Mr. Sachs with tranquillity.
"Will happen, you know, sometimes!"
Everybody got out. Mr. Sachs's presumption was correct. One of the
back wheels had failed to leap over a hole in Fifth Avenue some
eighteen inches deep and two feet long.
"What is that hole?" asked Edward Henry.
"Well," said Mr. Sachs, "it's just a hole. We'd better transfer to a
taxi." He gave calm orders to his chauffeur.
Four empty taxis passed down the sunny magnificence of Fifth Avenue
and ignored Mr. Sachs's urgent waving. The fifth stopped. The baggage
was strapped and tied to it: which process occupied much time. Edward
Henry, fuming against delay, gazed around. A nonchalant policeman on
a superb horse occupied the middle of the road. Tram-cars passed
constantly across the street in front of his caracoling horse,
dividing a route for themselves in the wild ocean of traffic as Moses
cut into the Red Sea. At intervals a knot of persons, intimidated and
yet daring, would essay the voyage from one pavement to the opposite
pavement; there was no half-way refuge for these adventurers, as in
decrepit London; some apparently arrived; others seemed to disappear
for ever in the feverish welter of confused motion and were never
heard of again.
Pages:
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332