Or if he isn't there try 'The Mad Hatter's,'-- 'Down the Rabbit Hole' you know;--or let's see--he'll be sure to show up at the Club some time before midnight.

If you don't find him come back here; maybe he'll drop in later, or else someone will who has seen him." Of course, he is found eventually,--usually quite soon, for the Village is a small place, and a true Village in its neighbourliness and its readiness to pass a message along.
Really, there is nothing quainter about it than this intimate and casual quality, such as is known in genuine, small country towns.
Fancy a part of New York City--Gotham, the cold, the selfish, the unneighbourly, the indifferent--in which everyone knows everyone else and takes a personal interest in them too; where distances are slight and pleasant, where young men in loose shirts with rolled-up sleeves, or girls hatless and in working smocks stroll across Sixth Avenue from one square to another with as little self-consciousness as though they were meandering down Main Street to a game of tennis or the village store! Sixth Avenue, indeed, has come to mean nothing more to them than a rustic bridge or a barbed-wire fence,--something to be gotten over speedily and forgotten.

They even, by some alchemy of view point, seem to give it a rural air from Jefferson Market down to Fourth Street--these cool-looking, hatless young people who make their leisurely way down Washington Place or along Fourth Street.

People pass them,--people in hats, coats and carrying bundles; but the Villagers do not notice them.

They do not even look at them pityingly; they do not look at them at all.