The Great Gatsby

vitality as we went by.

With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half
Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated
I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic
policeman rode alongside.

“All right, old sport,” called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white
card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes.

“Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next
time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!”

“What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?”

“I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a
Christmas card every year.”

Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a
constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across
the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of
nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always
the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the
mystery and the beauty in the world.

A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two
carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for
friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short