This shall be the theme of a little story
addressed to the man who sits smoking with his Sabbath-slippered feet
on another chair, and to the woman who snatches the paper for a moment
while boiling greens or a narcotized baby leaves her free. With these I
love to sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings.
New York City is inhabited by 4,000,000 mysterious strangers; thus
beating Bird Centre by three millions and half a dozen nine's. They
came here in various ways and for many reasons--Hendrik Hudson, the art
schools, green goods, the stork, the annual dressmakers' convention, the
Pennsylvania Railroad, love of money, the stage, cheap excursion rates,
brains, personal column ads., heavy walking shoes, ambition, freight
trains--all these have had a hand in making up the population.
But every man Jack when he first sets foot on the stones of Manhattan
has got to fight. He has got to fight at once until either he or his
adversary wins. There is no resting between rounds, for there are no
rounds. It is slugging from the first. It is a fight to a finish.
Your opponent is the City. You must do battle with it from the time the
ferry-boat lands you on the island until either it is yours or it has
conquered you.
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