City Of Promise Part 13

"Well, I wouldn't say, Mrs. Turner, that it's all that affordable."

For a post office employee, probably not. Josh had not underlined Frank Buchwald's name. But the new lawyer, and the accountant, and probably the manager of the shop that sold Steinway pianos-his wife hadn't spoken a single word, but she had not once taken her eyes from Mollie's face-all had firmly penciled lines drawn below their names.

"I think it is," Mollie said, "when you consider what you gain. Moving to the St. Nicholas means it's possible for an ordinary family to be in a private home for a modest amount of money compared to the thousands required to purchase. That's every family's dream, isn't it? A home of your own where you serve the meals you choose, and have a Christmas tree decorated to your own taste, and you and your husband can leave a puzzle half done and know when you come back to it next evening no one will have spoiled all your work, or worse, picked it apart. And in summer you can fill a picnic basket with supper and carry it over to the Central Park, and the whole family can have a jolly outing for no extra expense at all. With one of these flats, ladies, you can achieve that goal now, not years in the future when maybe-with no guarantee, mind-you might be able to purchase a whole house."

"Because," Mrs. Buchwald said, rising to leave the dining room, "these places you're talking about are not really in New York City. They're way up in the East Sixties where no civilized people live."

"Och, but you're forgetting about the stable and the horsecars. They make the flats entirely convenient for gentlemen needing to come downtown to work."

It wasn't Mollie who made that argument, it was Margaret Jackson.

By the time Mollie left twenty minutes later, she was entirely satisfied with what she'd accomplished. Of course Mrs. Wildwood would tell Josh his wife had called, but that wouldn't happen for a week or more. Josh was too busy building his flats to visit his rooming houses with any frequency. And by next week or the week after, Mollie was certain, the seeds she'd planted this afternoon would be bearing fruit and it wouldn't matter.

"Sorry, folks, not a hope. This is as far as we go."

The conductor pushed his way through the crowded streetcar with determination. Some of the many standing in the aisles were actually pushed into the laps of the seated pa.s.sengers. "Everybody out," the conductor shouted. "End of the line for today." The outside straphangers meanwhile, those who anch.o.r.ed themselves to the exterior of the car with the leather harnesses provided for the purpose, had long since jumped free. Because las.h.i.+ngs of snow had turned them into moving snowmen in what had become, in a virtual instant, a howling blizzard.

Having boarded at the beginning of the run when she left the Bowling Green residence, Mollie was seated at the back and was among the last pa.s.sengers to descend from the stalled car. She stepped onto the street and into a blinding white maelstrom. "Please, can someone tell me where we are?" She aimed the question in the direction of the other pa.s.sengers, mostly men, disappearing into the odd combination of whiteness and encroaching late afternoon dark.

"Fulton Street," someone called. "You'd best find some shelter, miss, else . . ." The warning was lost as the man moved off and his voice trailed away.

Mollie took a few steps forward, clutching her hat with one hand and trying to both lift her skirts and hang on to her m.u.f.f with the other. She heard the m.u.f.fled sound of shovels ahead-for the last ten blocks teams of workers had preceded the streetcar trying to clear the tracks-and the snorting of the horses, so she presumed she was heading uptown, but it was impossible to be sure. "Please," directing the question into the white void, "can anyone tell me if there's somewhere nearby I can find a cab?"

The only reply was the whinny of a horse, then the sound of a man gentling him, and the team of four being unhitched, followed by the soft clopping sound their hooves made on the snowy street as they were led away. Mollie started trudging up the road, hoping to encounter a cab, or perhaps someone who could advise where one might be found. Because of the storm, however, the shops and offices that lined this section of Broadway were already shut up tight and this far downtown, there were no private homes on the cross streets. Besides, the regularity of the grid didn't exist down here. If she turned away from the tracks she could get entirely lost. Even heading straight up Broadway she was unsure of exactly where she was. But if memory served, Park Row came after Fulton, and Park Row fronted on City Hall. Which indeed might be open and offering refuge to-How silly! She'd forgotten how close she was to St. Paul's Chapel. There could be no better place to seek shelter.

The path through the graveyard to the church doors hadn't been shoveled, but it did seem to be trodden. The wind s.h.i.+fted and she was half doubled over as she struggled toward the entrance. A gust tore at her hat and it came off but didn't blow away, hanging on instead by one pearl-tipped pin. Mollie made a number of futile efforts to secure it, then gave in and yanked the hat off and let the wind take it. "h.e.l.lo!" she shouted into the whiteness and the silence. "h.e.l.lo! Is the rector or someone about? I need-"

A hand grabbed her from behind and an arm circled her throat. "Ain't n.o.body at their prayers just now, love. So you be quiet and everything'll be fine. I'll take that m.u.f.f."

Mollie opened her mouth to scream but the arm around her throat reduced the sound to strangled grunts of terror. She tried to kick behind her, but her bustle had come loose and the meant-to-be-graceful trailing skirt of the red traveling suit trapped her foot. "Get those gloves off, love. Let's see what kind o' rings you-" There was a loud thwacking sound and the man's words ended in a squeal of pain.

"Get off with you! Go on! Go rob some other poor soul as is stranded in a storm. You're not even a proper thief, just a coward picking on a slip of a woman all alone in the snow."

The words-spoken in a woman's voice-were accompanied with more thwacking sounds and out of the corner of her eye Mollie saw the rise and descent of a rolled umbrella. Seconds later the a.s.sailant had let her go and run off. Mollie fought for breath while mumbling her thanks.

"Weren't nothing, miss. His kind is c.o.c.kroaches and deserve what they gets." The wielder of the umbrella materialized as a shadowy silhouette in the driving snow, a bulky figure wrapped in numerous scarves and a.s.sorted wraps who stooped down and came up holding Mollie's beaver m.u.f.f. "Here you go."

"Thank you." Mollie had to shout to be heard above the howling wind, "I don't have much money with me, but-"

"Don't mind if . . . Hang on. I know you. Tillie Wallace's p.a.w.n shop it was. I'm Tess o' the Roses."

The broad-brimmed hat was thickly encrusted in white snow, but having been reminded, Mollie recognized the unlikely a.s.sortment of pink-and-yellow silk roses she'd first seen at the p.a.w.n shop on East Seventh Street. "Why, so you are."

Tess reached forward and took Mollie's arm. "C'mon. You can't be wandering around alone in the likes of this. There's more villains about for sure. Candle to a moth you are, love." She was tugging Mollie back toward Broadway meanwhile, both women half-bent against the blowing snow. "It's Mollie as I recall. Now, where's home? Nearby I hope."

"Not very near," Mollie said. "Grand Street. But if we could find a cab, I'd-"

Tess snorted in derision. "Not a chance. C'mon," taking a tighter grip on Mollie's arm, "shank's mare it is. We'll go on together."

On Sixty-Third Street the sky had turned to gunmetal gray soon after the workmen took their dinner break, a meal they brought with them in tin boxes and ate sitting on the ground, leaning their backs against the upright steel beams that formed the skeleton of the apartment house to be. They washed the food down with ale from the keg Josh purchased from a nearby brewery, and provided as a bonus for working this far from the town. It was strong stuff-stand up without a gla.s.s, the men said-and the pungent reek of malted hops had become for Josh the smell of his unlikely project as it rose an incredible eight stories into the sky. Not today, however. The ale was overpowered by the metallic smell of the storm, followed by powerful gusts of wind that carried droplets of ice that stung the cheeks and bit into exposed hands. "Ain't but a taste o' what's comin'," someone said and there were murmurs of agreement.

It was not yet three when Henry Tickle nodded at the construction materials scattered everywhere and told Josh, "We'd best get things locked down. Feels like it's going to be a bad one."

Josh was content to let Henry see to what needed doing. The man had proved himself as capable a foreman of construction as Ebenezer was of steelmaking downtown in the foundry. It was the dwarf who'd suggested his cousin take over uptown. Said Henry would be invaluable in getting the steel skeleton in place. Later, when the specialist trades took over-the bricklayers and stone masons and plumbers and steam fitters and carpenters-someone would be needed to coordinate their efforts. His cousin, Ebenezer Tickle promised, would do a good job with that as well. Look out for your interests Henry will, Mr. Turner. Knows as what's best for you is best for him. Won't be nothing you paid for walking out the door without you earning a penny for the use of it.

As usual, it had been good advice worth taking. Particularly since Josh allowed the men who wished to do so to sleep on the building site, just as they did at the foundry. Most of the dozen workers took up the offer, making use of the empty but relatively snug stable, building a charcoal fire in a brazier for warmth, and saving themselves the long trek back into the city at least some nights during the week. Given the weather, they'd probably all stay tonight. If it weren't for Mollie home alone on Grand Street, Josh might have considered doing the same. Or he'd have gone eight blocks further uptown to Suns.h.i.+ne Hill. Either would be preferable to the long ride back to town in a storm. As it was, neither was possible. It was Thursday. Mollie wouldn't have even Mrs. Hannity for company. She'd be entirely alone in a blizzard. Unthinkable.

"Best start back, if you're going, sir." Henry again. "I think we're going to get what Mother Nature's been storing up for the last few months."

"I think so too, Henry. Thing is, Mr. McKim was supposed to meet me here this afternoon."

Henry sucked on his finger and held it up to the wind. "Nor'easter," he said. "Coming over the river and traveling fast. I don't figure anyone's likely to head up to Sixty-Third Street this afternoon."

Down at the foundry Ebenezer Tickle stepped outside just as the bells of Trinity Church tolled three o'clock. Took his pipe with him. He wasn't slacking. They were making less steel these days so there was less to do all around, both work and the supervising of it. Besides, he was thinking on a problem that was, in some ways, more his employer's lookout than his own.

Hard to figure what Trenton Clifford wanted from Joshua Turner. Far as he could see, there wasn't- Think of the devil and you'll see the tip of his tail. That's what his daddy used to say. Clifford was standing right there. Looking straight at him. "Good afternoon, Ebenezer."

"What are you doing here?"

"Having a look. You cannot object to that, can you, my little friend?"

"A look at what? And I ain't your friend."

"In which case," Clifford said, "I've no need to answer your question." Clifford chuckled when he said it, then turned his back on Tickle and walked a few yards further along the wharf and stood looking at the Devrey s.h.i.+pping building. No, Tickle decided. He was looking at the Devrey s.h.i.+ps.

Three of 'em was tied up at the pier, with four more riding at anchor just beyond. Backed by the great tower of that d.a.m.ned bridge they was said to be building. It loomed on the horizon over on the Brooklyn side. Supposed to be another just like it over here in New York. Going to suspend a structure across. Folks building it said it would be tall enough so any mast could fit underneath. Tickle couldn't see how that was going to prove out. Didn't seem logical to him. Just like it wasn't logical that Trenton Clifford was down here looking at boats as had nothing to do with him. It was the foundry he was interested in. The dwarf had no doubt about it.

Tickle stayed where he was. After three or four minutes Clifford moved off in the direction of Wall Street. Tickle watched him go, then went inside and summoned George Higgins. "You got to go find Mr. Turner. Tell him Trenton Clifford's gunning for him."

"Gunning for him how?"

"Like he was hunting possum. Waiting till he gets things lined up as suits him before he takes a shot. I seen Clifford just now. Outside looking at this place. He made like he was looking at Devrey's s.h.i.+ps, or that tower over in Brooklyn. But I think that was playacting."

"That's what you want me to tell Turner? Clifford was down here looking?"

"Ain't the first time. You know that."

Higgins didn't say anything, just nodded.

"Go now," Tickle said. "Go by the house first. If he ain't there, go on up to Sixty-Third Street. Tell Mr. Turner he needs to look out for his interests. Maybe get some folks down here as can keep an eye on things."

"Thought we was doing that," Higgins said. "Sleeping here and all."

"We're no match for a bunch of thugs if Clifford decides to hire 'em. What Mr. Turner needs to do is hire some thugs of his own. Do it fast. Leastwise that's what I think. Go find him and tell him."

10.

GEORGE HIGGINS WAS hurrying up Gold Street when the snow began. He increased his pace. Stupid of Ebenezer to have sent him on this errand. Obadiah would have done a better job. Longer legs were sometimes a big advantage. On the other hand, Obadiah didn't know about Clifford. At least not the way he and Ebenezer did.

Most storms started slow and built themselves up. This one was a roaring monster in minutes. Seemed like the wind was forcing him back a step for each two he took forward. George hesitated, considering his situation, then decided he'd come too far to turn back. At this point the house on Grand Street was closer than the foundry. If Turner wasn't home his wife would be. He could ask to wait out the snow. She'd never been particularly friendly, looked at him funny every time he showed up at the house with the accounts or such like. Still, unlikely she'd refuse him shelter in a storm. He turned up the collar of his thick woolen jacket and battled on.

Took him better than half an hour to get as far as Ca.n.a.l Street. By then some of the drifts were taller than he was. Never seen so much snow come down so fast. Leastwise there was no traffic. Just lots of stalled and empty horsecars and streetcars and carriages. Higgins started across the road, head bent against the winds driving straight at him. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"h.e.l.lo, George. I've been looking for you."

He looked up at Trenton Clifford's walrus mustache. The twirled ends were frosted with snow. "What for?"

"I just wanted to say h.e.l.lo, George." Clifford tightened his grip. "After all, we're old friends, aren't we?"

"I wouldn't say exactly that. I got to go, Captain Clifford. We don't have no business together anymore."

"Quite so, George. Besides, snow like this could bury a midget altogether. He might not be found for weeks."

Higgins pulled away and Clifford let him go, standing and watching him trudge doggedly on through the increasing fury of the sudden storm. Thought he'd best get out of the weather himself because, Christ Almighty, the north was a cursed place. Seemed like giant hands in the sky were emptying barrels of snow on the world below. Nonetheless, Trenton Clifford did not immediately move on. Not until he made out the man who stepped out of a nearby doorway, tipped his hat in Clifford's direction, and followed the dwarf.

By the time Josh had ridden ten blocks he was fighting a howling blizzard. In other circ.u.mstances the occasional hints of life behind doors closed against the fierce storm might have tempted him to give it up and seek shelter in a hotel or even a private home. But however enticing the wink of gaslights and once even a few notes of music, he didn't consider stopping. Mollie was sensible and unlikely to panic, but she was bound to be worried. About him if nothing else. And conditions like this encouraged the worst of the city's villains to go on the prowl. He struggled on, encouraging Midnight with murmurs and whispers, his upper body bent nearly straight over the horse's mane. The going was excruciatingly slow, the pair of them utterly alone in a white world deserted by civilization.

Occasionally he made out the carca.s.s of an abandoned streetcar or carriage, their empty traces outlined by drifting snow. One bit of encouragement were the church bells that tolled along his route. He recognized their distinctive tones: Dutch Reformed at Twenty-First Street, sonorous and steady as they rang in six o'clock; Episcopal Church of the Ascension at Twelfth, chiming six-thirty in prettier, higher-pitched sounds with more flourishes. Soon after that Josh realized the going was getting easier as he traveled further downtown. The more densely packed city provided windbreaks and s...o...b..eaks, and in a few cases the gusts had actually whipped a path along a narrow street, even to the extent of here and there exposing a few cobbles. His progress along Grand Street after he made the turn from the Bowery was achieved at a nearly normal pace, helped on by Midnight's recognition that they were almost home.

The steps leading to the front door of the house were buried in snow, and Josh was glad to see Mollie hadn't been foolish enough to try and shovel them clear. The only light appeared to come from the drawing room that was now his office, a dull glow behind drawn curtains, but just then he had no time to wonder why no light showed elsewhere. The mare was both fractious and determined. She required no urging to use her powerful forelegs to break through the drift in front of the alley that led to the small stable behind the house.

Josh dismounted quickly, grateful for the tight quarters that made it possible for him to bang on the back entrance to the house at the same time he began the job of getting the door to the stable open, cursing meanwhile the fact that he did not employ a live-in stable boy, only a part-time lad who came around to feed whichever horse he wasn't using and muck out once a week. "Mollie! I'm here. Be right in. Soon as I see to Midnight. Got to get her cooled down before I can feed her. Take a good few minutes."

The house was remarkably quiet, and black as pitch, the only light showing as a crack beneath the door of the office. Josh moved along the hall calling Mollie's name and not permitting himself to speculate on the silence that greeted his arrival, or the fact that the dining room where he'd have expected to find her was both dark and empty. "Mollie, where are you love? It's been the devil's own journey, and I'd be grateful for-" He pushed open the office door.

At first the gaslight, even at half power as it was, made him blink. He had to look twice to be sure he was seeing what he thought he saw. George Higgins, the dwarf who kept the foundry books, lay on his belly on the floor beside the desk, his face half-turned as if he'd lain down to go to sleep, so the glow of the wall sconce illumined him and allowed Josh to know at once exactly who he was. Had been, to be more precise. There was a dagger buried up to the hilt in George's back and he was unquestionably dead.

What struck him first was not the unlikeliness of this victim in this particular place, but the stark evidence that something very terrible had happened under his roof.

Josh ran back to the hall, no longer shouting Mollie's name, but searching for her frantically, expecting the worst wherever he looked. He pelted downstairs to the kitchen first. No one was there but he was able to light a taper from the damped coals of the kitchen stove and thereafter he lit the lamps wherever he pa.s.sed. At the end the house was ablaze in light and Josh knew he and the dead dwarf were the only people in it.

He went again down to the kitchen and found a large white sheet in the linen cupboard next to the stove and carried it back to the office. This time he lowered himself beside Higgins's body-not an easy task for a one-legged man-and felt for a pulse. The result was what he expected, but he learned as well that the dwarf had been dead for some hours. George's body was cold and stiff. His jacket, soaked through like his trousers-indicating he had struggled through the snow to get here-was thick dark wool and it had absorbed nearly all the blood. There was only a small pool of it beside him on the carpet, and it was already congealed. Josh considered turning the corpse over but decided against it. The police always wanted to do such things for themselves, and sooner or later they must certainly be informed. Given the weather they would understand that he could not summon them as soon as he discovered the body, but they were bound to be less forgiving if he'd trampled all over what they would see as evidence.

Josh spread the sheet over the small corpse, pulled himself up by using the corner of the desk for purchase, and for the first time took a look at the office itself. It was a wreck. The drawers of his filing cabinet had been turned out, the contents left strewn on the floor, and the top of his desk swept clean of ledgers and inkpots and notebooks. As if someone had pushed the entire detritus of his record keeping off the desk and onto the floor in what seemed a fit of pique at not finding what he wanted. Josh had, however, not a clue as to what that might be. Nor what had brought George Higgins up from the foundry in such weather as this, much less who had put a knife in his back or why.

All that registered in the back of his mind, as it were. The front was fighting a terrible and growing fear. He kept trying to convince himself Mollie might have gone to her aunt's, left before the storm, and been prevented from returning because of its onslaught. But she hadn't said anything about such plans, and wouldn't she have left a note or- His thoughts were interrupted by a series of loud thumps coming from the hall. Someone was banging on the door. Repeatedly and with considerable force.

Josh looked at the outline of the undersized body beneath the sheet and wished he had a pistol, or even a rifle of some sort, but there were no firearms in the house. It had never occurred to him he might require them. Anyway, it was likely all that business about criminals always returning to the scene of the crime was invented by the hacks who wrote the stories for the newspapers and magazines that promulgated the theory. He satisfied his wish to be prudent by picking up a heavy lead blotter and went to investigate.

The snow was blowing straight toward him when he opened the door. At first he couldn't make out anything other than the sheets of white which he'd faced for so much of this day. Then he realized two women stood in front of him, and that one was his wife. Mollie was entirely covered in snow, even her eyelashes were crusted with it, and since she wore no hat it was as if, since he saw her that morning, her hair had turned white.

"Josh, this is Tess o' . . ." She managed only the first words of the introduction, then began to crumple.

That collapse broke his astonished paralysis and he reached for her, catching her before she fell and pulled her toward him, inviting the woman with her into the house only with the command that she close the door behind them. She did that, then strode in front of him, saying, "Here, sir. Let me get that," as she dashed for the door to the office he'd pulled shut when he came out into the hall.

"No! Not in there. The next door." Half carrying and half dragging Mollie, meanwhile. Cursing the fact that he could not pick her up properly because his balance was too impaired by the extent of his own fatigue.

The creature-she was as snow-covered as his wife, but wearing a broad-brimmed hat of some sort that carried half a foot of white frosting-yanked open the door to the dining room and let him go past her with Mollie, then entered behind them. After which she made at once for the tantalus on the sideboard. "Just what's wanted. This ain't locked, is it, sir?" Answering her own question by lifting the wooden lid and grabbing the decanter of brandy. "Where might the gla.s.ses . . . Ah, here we are." She helped herself to those as well and poured three generous tots, managing to carry all three to where Josh had put Mollie in a chair and was using the nearest bit of cloth he could find, a lace doily, to both dry her face and rub some life back into it.

"She's a game one," Tess said, putting the brandy down and taking the seat opposite them. "Walked here from Fulton Street we did. I figure it took us best part of three hours. And her in that condition, as she told me on the way. Won't probably do her or the baby no harm, but let her have a sip of that brandy, sir. Bound to bring her round." With that she tossed back the drink she'd poured for herself and stood up to get another.

Mollie grew feverish during the night, sleeping only in fits and starts and frequently calling his name, but apparently not much comforted by anything he said, only by his arms around her. For his part Josh slept hardly at all. He listened for every sound. There were few, the heavy snow muting even the usual creaking of the house, but he was unable to forget that the corpse of a murdered man lay on the floor below. He hadn't undressed, conscious of the fact that as soon as the storm abated and there was some daylight he must go and find, first, the police and, second, a doctor for Mollie. Or perhaps the order should be reversed. Nothing would, after all, bring George Higgins back to life.

"In her condition . . ." the woman had said. Tess somebody. He wasn't sure he'd heard a last name. Presumably that meant Mollie had claimed she was expecting a child. Odd that she'd confided in a stranger when she hadn't told him. Or perhaps not, given the circ.u.mstances in which she'd found herself. Struggling through the snow on foot that way . . . it must have felt at times like the last journey she was to take on earth.

She muttered his name again and he stroked her forehead and spoke quiet and he hoped soothing words into her ear. And when she called out, "Tess, don't go!," a.s.sured her that the woman who'd brought her home was sleeping upstairs in the room across from Mrs. Hannity's.

He'd gone back earlier and checked on the sorry business in the office where, of course, nothing had changed. Then he'd locked both the hall door and those from the dining room, and tried to shut out of his mind the fact that a man who worked for him, who was in some sense his responsibility, had been murdered under his roof. And for a reason that was, as far as Josh was concerned, totally unfathomable.

Then, around two a.m. according to the tolling clock on the nearby Presbyterian church, the question he'd thus far forgotten to consider surfaced in his mind. What in holy h.e.l.l had Mollie been doing down on Fulton Street?

Josh woke after a few hours of exhausted sleep to the aroma of frying eggs and bacon and brewing coffee. Mollie was asleep, though her face was still flushed with fever. He got out of the bed and, after a splash of cold water in lieu of a proper wash and shave, went downstairs to see if somehow Mrs. Hannity had managed to get home and resume her duties.

It was, however, Tess who was setting out food in the dining room. "Thought you could use some breakfast, sir. And since there weren't no one else to cook it, I made free. Hope you don't mind."

"No, not at all, Miss . . . Or is it Mrs.? And I'm sorry, I don't remember the name."

"Mrs. Mary Teresa Santucci," she said. "Widow. But everyone calls me Tess. Or Tess o' the Roses if we're being formal. And I'm sure you know why," she added with a bob of her head.

The hat was free of snow and the pink-and-yellow silk roses were dry, and it was apparent she did not intend to take the thing off indoors or out. "I suspect I can guess, Tess of the Roses. And I realize I have not thanked you properly for bringing my wife home. I am quite sure she would not have found her way without you. I'm very grateful."

"You're entirely welcome. And I'm grateful as well. For the warm dry bed," she added, seeing his look of puzzlement. "Now, sir, you sit down and eat some breakfast, and I'll go up and sit with Mrs. Turner until you're done."

"Can you stay for a time after that, Tess? I must go and find a doctor for her, and . . . deal with some other urgent business. You'll be properly compensated, of course."

"Glad to," Tess said gaily. "I'll be here long as you need me."

Josh was torn between rus.h.i.+ng to the front door to see if there had been any effort to clear the street-City Hall was notoriously slow to dispatch shovel men to residential streets like this one-and doing something about his empty belly. The judgment was quickly made. He hadn't eaten since a hasty lunch of some bread and cheese the day before and he was, he realized, ravenous. He sat down and practically fell on the food, and only after he'd dispatched four eggs and three rashers of bacon, along with a healthy helping of hashed potatoes and three pieces of toast and two cups of coffee, did he go and open the front door.

The path made by Mollie and Tess when they climbed the front steps was still mostly visible, so the snow must have stopped falling soon after they came home. Now there was bright sun, intensified when it bounced off a gleaming white world. Josh heard the sound of voices, and when he looked to his right he could see gangs of young boys with shovels over their shoulders going from house to house offering to clear a path for the homeowner. "Over here!" he called and three lads made their way to him, wading through waist-high drifts.

"How's Broadway look?" Josh asked.

"Shoveled clear as far as Twentieth Street," one of the boys answered.

"And Fifth Avenue?"

"Only up as far as the hospital on Sixteenth."

"That will do very well," Josh said. "Get started shoveling my front steps and the alley back to the stable. Meanwhile I'm going to write a couple of notes and one of you can deliver them."