Market street is still lively. A "dance orchard" emits its patrons down a long stair to the street. Down they come, gaily laughing. The male partners are all either gobs, who love dancing even more than ice cream soda; or youths with tilted straw hats of coarse weave, with legs that bend backward most oddly below the knee, very tightly and briefly trousered. Two doughboys with ace of spades shoulder insignia greet the emerging throng, showing little booklets for sale. They urge the girls to buy, with various arts of cajolery and bright-eyed persuasion. "Who'll buy a book?" they say, "forty short stories, put out by a wounded soldier." The girls all wear very extensive hats, and are notably pretty. "Which way do we go?" is the first question on reaching the street. It is usually the way to the nearest soda fountain.
Twelve forty. The watering tank roars down Chestnut street, shedding a hissing tide from curb to curb. The fleet of To Hire night taxis wheel off one by one as fares leap in to escape from the deluge, which can be heard approaching far up the silent street. It is getting quiet, save in the all-night lunch rooms, where the fresh baking of doughnuts and cinnamon buns is being set out, and the workers of the night shift are streaming in for their varied and substantial meals. They eat leisurely, with loud talk, or reading the morning papers.
One fifteen. The population consists mostly of
