Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/manhattanersstor00vanziala THE MANHATTANERS A Story of the Hour by EDWARD S. VAN ZILE Author of “A Magnetic Man,” “Last of the Van Slacks,” etc., etc. New York Lovell, Coryell & Company 1895 Copyright, 1895, By United States Book Company. THE MANHATTANERS. CHAPTER I. “I don’t want to discourage you, my boy, but, as our ‘brevier writers’ are so fond of saying, there is ‘food for reflection’ in that historic figure.” It was half an hour after midnight, and two men were standing at the south-west corner of City Hall park, gazing at the statue of Nathan Hale. The taller of the two was a man who, having passed the portentous age of forty, no longer referred to his birthday when he reached it. He had maintained silence on this subject for several years, and his friends were not certain whether he was forty-one or forty-five; but his face seemed to indicate the latter age. It was a strong face, marked with lines of care, perhaps of dissipation, and about the mouth lurked an expression of discontent. That he had grown rather weary of the battle of life was indicated by his dress, which possessed that indefinable characteristic that may be expressed as careless shabbiness. His beard was untrimmed, and a slouch hat covered a head of iron-gray hair that would have been picturesque had it not been constantly neglected. His companion was a youth of not more than three-and-twenty, slender, carefully attired, and with a delicately-moulded face that was strikingly handsome when he smiled. He was showing his perfect teeth at this moment, as he glanced first at the statue of the martyred hero, and then at the sarcastic countenance of his companion. “Why do you say that, Fenton? Surely there is inspiration in the sight. Does not the figure prove that the time-worn slur regarding the ingratitude of republics is false?” “Hardly that, Richard--_Richard Cœur de Lion_ I shall dub you for awhile. It simply shows that somebody, at a very late day, had an attack of spasmodic sentimentality. There are other heroes of the Revolution, who were as self-sacrificing and patriotic as Nathan Hale, who are still forgotten by a republic that is grateful only in spots. Immortality, my dear youngster, is, to a great extent, a matter of chance. But, to waive that point, don’t you see how this figure of enthusiastic youth, this doomed martyr--this complete tie-up on Broadway, as a flippant friend of mine once called the statue--illustrates the dangers that beset your path?” “I must acknowledge,” answered Richard Stoughton good-naturedly, as he placed his arm in Fenton’s and walked westward toward the Sixth Avenue elevated station at Park Place, “I must acknowledge that I have seen nothing in the park that tended to dampen my natural enthusiasm, unless it was the sign, ‘Keep off the grass.’”