"Get up and come along.

The sooner we have this thing under way, the better." "All right, anything to oblige," conceded Waldron, inwardly stirred by an interest he took good care not to divulge in word or look.

"Give me just time for a cold plunge, a few minutes with my masseur and my barber, a bite to eat and--" Flint laid hold on his partner and shook him roughly.
"Move, you sluggard!" he commanded.

And Tiger Waldron obeyed.
Forty-five minutes later, the two financiers were speeding down the asphalt of the avenue at a good round clip.

Flint's gleaming car formed one unit of the never-ending procession of motors which, day and night, year in and year out, spin unceasingly along the great, hard, splendid, cruel thoroughfare.
"I tell you," Flint was asserting as they swung into Broadway, at Twenty-third Street, and headed for South Ferry, "I tell you, Wally, the thing is growing vaster and more potent every moment.