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 same thing. When they get through saying it there is an echo from Philadelphia. So, they are unanimous.”

“Here are 4,000,000 people,” said I, scholastically, “compressed upon an island, which is mostly lamb surrounded by Wall Street water. The conjunction of so many units into so small a space must result in an identity—or, rather a homogeneity—that finds its oral expression through a common channel. It is, as you might say, a consensus of translation, concentrating in a crystallized, general idea which reveals itself in what may be termed the Voice of the City. Can you tell me what it is?

Aurelia smiled wonderfully. She sat on the high stoop. A spray of insolent ivy bobbed against her right ear. A ray of impudent moonlight flickered upon her nose. But I was adamant, nickel-plated.

“I must go and find out,” I said, “what is the Voice of this city. Other cities have voices. It is an assignment. I must have it. New York,” I continued, in a rising tone, “had better not hand me a cigar and say: ‘Old man, I can’t talk for publication.’ No other city acts in that way. Chicago says, unhesitatingly, ‘I will;’ Philadelphia says, ‘I should;’ New Orleans says, ‘I used to;’ Louisville says, ‘Don’t care if I do;’ St. Louis says, ‘Excuse me;’ Pittsburg says, ‘Smoke up.’ Now, New York”