Long lines of cars, toy-like, crept along the "L" structures.

As far as the eye could reach, tufted plumes of smoke and steam wafted away on the April breeze.

The East River glistened in the sunlight, its bosom vexed by myriad craft, by ocean liners, by tugs and barges, by grim warships, by sailing-vessels, whose canvas gleamed, by snow-white fruitboats from the tropics, by hulls from every port.

Over the bridges, long slow lines of traffic crawled.

And, far beyond to the dim horizon, stretched out the hives of men, till the blue depths of distance swallowed all in haze.
And as Flint gazed on this marvel, all created and maintained by human toil, by sweat and skill and tireless patience of the workers, a hard smile curved his lips.
"All mine, more or less," said he to himself, puffing deep on his cigar.
"All yielding tribute to me, even as the mines and mills and factories I cannot see yield tribute! Even as the oil-wells, the pipe-lines, the railroads and the subways yield--even as the whole world yields it.