quiet of a great city at night,
when a few million people within it are sleeping, or ought to be. They
work in the clang of a distant owl car, and the roar of an occasional "L"
train, and the hollow echo of the footsteps of the late passer-by. They
go elaborately into description, and are strong on the brooding hush, but
the thing has never been done satisfactorily.

Gertie, sitting on the front stoop at two in the morning, with her orange
in one hand and the sardine can in the other, put it this way:

"If I was to hear a cricket chirp now, I'd screech. This isn't really
quiet. It's like waiting for a cannon cracker to go off just before the
fuse is burned down. The bang isn't there yet, but you hear it a hundred
times in your mind before it happens."

"My name's Augustus G. Eddy," announced the Kid Next Door, solemnly.
"Back home they always called me Gus. You peel that orange while I
unroll the top of this sardine can. I'm guilty of having interrupted you
in the middle of what the girls call a good cry, and I know you'll have
to get it out of your system some way. Take a bite of apple and then
wade right in and tell me what you're doing in this burg if you don't
like it."

"This thing ought to have slow music," began Gertie. "It's pathetic. I
came to Chicago from Beloit, Wisconsin, because I thought that little
town was a lonesome hole for a vivacious creature like me. Lonesome!
Listen while I laugh a low mirthless laugh. I didn't know anything about
the three-ply, double-barreled, extra heavy brand of lonesomeness that a
big town like this can deal out. Talk about your desert wastes! They're
sociable and snug compared to this. I know three-fourths of the people
in Beloit, Wisconsin, by their first names. I've lived here six months
and I'm not on informal terms with anybody except Teddy, the landlady's
dog, and he's a trained rat-and-book-agent terrier, and not inclined to
overfriendliness. When I clerked at the Enterprise Store in Beloit the
women used to come in and ask for something we didn't carry just for an
excuse to copy the way the lace yoke effects were planned in my
shirtwaists. You ought to see the way those same shirtwaist stack up
here. Why, boy, the lingerie waists that the other girls in my
department wear make my best hand-tucked effort look like a simple
English country blouse. They're so dripping with Irish crochet and real
Val and Cluny insertions that it's a wonder the girls