But Ben was pleading in a broken voice for one sight of the
old home with its boyhood memories clustering about its modest front and
I was afraid he'd get to crying, so I give in wearily and we was once
more encased in taxicabs and on our way to the sacred scene. Ben had
quite an argument with the drivers when he give 'em the address. They
kept telling him there wasn't a thing open down there, but he finally
got his aim understood. The New Yorker's petrified remains was carefully
tucked into the cab with Ben.
And Ben suffered another cruel blow at the end of the ride. He climbed
out of the cab in a reverent manner, hoping to be overcome by the sight
of the cherished old home, and what did he find? He just couldn't
believe it at first. The dear old house had completely disappeared and
in its place was a granite office building eighteen stories high. Ben
just stood off and looked up at it, too overcome for words. Up near the
top a monster brass sign in writing caught the silver light of dawn. The
sign sprawled clear across the building and said PANTS EXCLUSIVELY.
Still above this was the firm's name in the same medium--looking like a
couple of them hard-lettered towns that get evacuated up in Poland.
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