Luigi was waiting for us, and without losing a minute we sallied
forth.
By means of the tortuous twists of streets in old Greenwich
village we came out at last on Bleecker Street and began walking
east amid the hurly-burly of races of lower New York. We had not
quite reached Mulberry Street when our attention was attracted by
a large crowd on one of the busy corners, held back by a cordon
of police who were endeavouring to keep the people moving with
that burly good nature which the six-foot Irish policeman
displays toward the five-foot burden-bearers of southern and
eastern Europe who throng New York.
Apparently, we saw, as we edged up into the front of the crowd,
here was a building whose whole front had literally been torn off
and wrecked. The thick plate-glass of the windows was smashed to
a mass of greenish splinters on the sidewalk, while the windows
of the upper floors and for several houses down the block in
either street were likewise broken. Some thick iron bars which
had formerly protected the windows were now bent and twisted. A
huge hole yawned in the floor inside the doorway, and peering in
we could see the desks and chairs a tangled mass of kindling.
"What's the matter?" I inquired of an officer near me, displaying
my reporter's fire-line badge, more for its moral effect than in
the hope of getting any real information in these days of
enforced silence toward the press.
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