The 'bus always invaded De Lacey Street on its tour. A quaint "point of interest" was to be found there. Today the 'bus was in luck. For, coincident with its arrival, the "point of interest" appeared.
Down De Lacey Street waddled leisurely a huge gray horse pulling a yellow horse car of the vintage of the nineties. The horse was well groomed, the car was newly washed, painted and repaired, but both horse and car were unmistakably old. So, for that matter, was the driver. An ancient of sixty or more, white of hair and weather-beaten of face, he stood solidly on the platform of the car and clucked his "giddy-yeps" to his steed the while he puffed upon a well-worn corncob pipe.
The 'bus roared slowly past this relic of thirty years ago.
"This, ladies and gentlemen," sang out the raucous voice of the man with the megaphone, "is the last horse car in the whole city of New York. It constitoots the Crosstown Railway, which is only half a mile long and is owned and operated by 'Pop' Dillon, the man you see driving the car. Howdy, Pop!"
The driver of the car nodded his head slightly, acknowledging the rather disparaging salute with considerable dignity. Then he yelled "Whoa!" authoritatively, as the bell tinkled above his head.
The horse obligingly and without regret halted. Pop draped the lines around the brake handle and walked rheumatically back into the car. A fat
