burning heavens, "I 'guess' it doesn't rain so much here!"
The door was opened by a long negro in a white jacket, who grinned familiarly when Lord Lambeth asked for Mr. Westgate.
"He ain't at home, Sah; he's down town at his o'fice."
"Oh, at his office?" said the visitors. "And when will he be at home?"
"Well, Sah, when he goes out dis way in de mo'ning, he ain't liable to come home all day."
This was discouraging; but the address of Mr. Westgate's office was freely imparted by the intelligent black, and was taken down by Percy Beaumont in his pocket-book. The two gentlemen then returned, languidly, to their hotel, and sent for a hackney-coach, and in this commodious vehicle they rolled comfortably down town. They measured the whole length of Broadway, again, and found it a path of fire; and then, deflecting to the left, they were deposited by their conductor before a fresh, light, ornamental structure, ten stories high, in a street crowded with keen-faced, light-limbed young men, who were running about very quickly, and stopping each other eagerly at corners and in doorways. Passing into this brilliant building, they were introduced by one of the keen-faced young men—he
