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CASTLE GARDEN
31
chute covered with black cloth. Davis beheld a lighted piece of glass. Upon it appeared the photograph of a man. It glittered oddly. Then the man began to move. Jerkily, the image skipped, danced, leaped. . . .
At night, young Adolph Zukor wandered up the theatrical zone of Broadway where that new marvel, the electric light, illuminated the posters of Booth in classical tragedy, of Ada Rehan in classical comedy. Between the theatres, swinging doors opened into gilded and glittering saloons, from which floated the lively rattle of masculine talk and laughter. This brilliant quarter mile ended before Broadway widened out into Longacre Square; an irregular quadrangle of shops and bars housed in what had been fine old residences.
Again, prescience withheld its magic. No thrill foretold the Paramount Building, built on the increment of shadows, guarding the gateway to a new city of light. . . . The crowds, thronging the streets pavement-full, did not overawe and depress him as they do so many who behold the great metropolis for the first time. Weaker spirits, come to New York in search of fortune, have terminated their adventuring in the first three weeks, unable to endure the overwhelming impersonality of this river of souls. But they inspired him; he fell in love on sight with the metropolis.
The exalted interest of this mood alternated with anxiety. Dr. Gustavus could find him no job. When his quandary took hold of him, Adolph always walked over