Such is Abingdon Square on a
night in early August when first the dog-star begins to rage.
Now my friend Esper Indiman is a social philosopher; life in all
its phases interests him tremendously. Consequently, he likes to
take long rides on trolley-cars. He calls them his vaudeville in
miniature, and sometimes the performance is amusing--I acknowledge
it freely. But to-night the actors were few and the play dull. I
began to yawn. The car, one of the Eighth Avenue line bound down-
town, swung round a curve into Abingdon Square, and Indiman touched
my arm.
"What's going on over there?" he said.
Although it was not a concert night, there was a crowd around the
band-stand. It looked as though some one was haranguing the
assemblage from the vantage-point of the music pavilion--a local
political orator or perhaps a street preacher. "Salvation Army," I
suggested.
"Shall we take a look?" I nodded, and we alighted and pushed our
way to the front.
It was a young man who stood there, rather a nice-looking chap,
with a broad forehead from which the thin, fair hair fell away in a
tumbled wave. He was attired in evening clothes, assuredly an
unusual sight in Abingdon Square, where they do not dress for
dinner, and the expression upon his countenance was that of
recklessness tempered with a certain half-humorous melancholy.
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