—Tower held the door open and passed Don out with the same protective smile, somewhat amused but always sympathetic.
They took the elevated railroad around the Battery to Chatham Square.
It was, for Don, a descent into the city's unknown lower regions, but Tower seemed as much at home and as incuriously observant of familiar surroundings as he had been when sauntering along the line of employment agencies on Sixth Avenue. "This is the Bowery," he said, as they came down the station steps. "The 'Rogues' Highway.'" He led silently past the "beer gardens," the "musees," the "amusement parlours," and all the sour drinking resorts and tinselled "fake shows" of the street, apparently unconscious of the vicious and miserable faces that he met, of the staggering drunkenness of ragged men and the pathetic finery of painted women. "This is 'Suicides' Hall,'" he explained mildly, as they passed a saloon. "About three girls a month, on the average, drink carbolic acid there. Don't stare," he added. "And don't answer if you're spoken to." Don proceeded, silent with the oppression of spirits which seemed to exhale in the stale air of the street, in the paleness of faces that were marked by the summer heat with a drawn exhaustion instead of a healthy tan, in the hoarse cries of the "barkers" at the doors, and in the smell of spotted fruit that came from the push-carts of pedlars at the curb and from the water-melon rinds in the gutters.
They stopped before the "Palace of Illusions: The original Bowery Musee," and Tower said, "Wait here
