"You see," said the reporter, "it is all like this. Night in a great
city is not picturesque and it is not theatrical. It is sodden,
sometimes brutal, exciting enough until you get used to it, but it
runs in a groove. It is dramatic, but the plot is old and the motives
and characters always the same."
The rumble of heavy market wagons and the rattle of milk carts told
them that it was morning, and as they opened the door the cold fresh
air swept into the place and made them wrap their collars around their
throats and stamp their feet. The morning wind swept down the cross-
street from the East River and the lights of the street lamps and of
the saloon looked old and tawdry. Travers and the reporter went off to
a Turkish bath, and the gentleman who held the watch, and who had been
asleep for the last hour, dropped into a nighthawk and told the man to
drive home. It was almost clear now and very cold, and Van Bibber
determined to walk. He had the strange feeling one gets when one stays
up until the sun rises, of having lost a day somewhere, and the dance
he had attended a few hours before seemed to have come off long ago,
and the fight in Jersey City was far back in the past.
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