[Monkeywrench-general] the gloves and moccasins. The sh

[Groeschel <bu...@sc...>]

Brushed by him without bestowing the expected tip. Thorpe descended at
Twelfth Street in Chicago without any very clear notion of where he was
going. For a moment he faced the long park-like expanse of the lake
front, then turned sharp to his left and picked his way south up the
interminable reaches of Michigan Avenue. He did this without any
conscious motive--mainly because the reaches seemed interminable, and he
proved the need of walking. Block after block he clicked along, the
caulks of his boots striking fire from the pavement. Some people stared
at him a little curiously. Others merely glanced in his direction,
attracted more by the expression of his face than the peculiarity of his
dress. At that time rivermen were not an uncommon sight along the water
front. After an interval he seemed to have left the smoke and dirt
behind. The street became quieter. Boarding-houses and tailors' shops
ceased. Here and there appeared a bit of lawn, shrubbery, flowers. The
residences established an uptown crescendo of magnificence. Policemen
seemed trimmer, better-gloved. Occasionally he might have noticed in
front of one of the sandstone piles, a besilvered pair champing before a
stylish vehicle. By and by he came to himself to find that he was
staring at the deep-carved lettering in a stone horse-block before a
large dwelling. His mind took the letters in one after the other,
perceiving them plainly before it accorded them recognition. Finally he
had completed the word "Farrad." He whirled sharp on his heel, mounted
the broad white stone steps, and rang the bell. It was answered almo