That crowd represented the
slag and scum of the boiling pot of nineteenth-century conditions. And
as the flotsam on a river always centres at its eddies, so these had
drifted, from the country, and from the slums, to the centre of the
whirlpool of American life. Here they were waiting. Waiting for what?
The future only would show. But each moment is a future, till it becomes
the present.
While the regiment still breakfasted it became conscious of a monotonous
sound, growing steadily in volume. Then came the tap of the drum, and
the regiment rose from a half-eaten meal, and lined up as if on parade.
Several of the members remarked crossly: "Why couldn't they wait ten
minutes?"
The next moment the head of another regiment swung from Chambers Street
into the square. It was greeted by hisses and groans from the denizens
of the park, but this lack of politeness was more than atoned for, by
the order: "Present arms," passed down the immovable line awaiting it.
After a return salute the commanding officers advanced and once more
saluted.
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