New York, or the Big Apple as its inhabitants called it, was vast, tall, and stately, but the night could envelop all of it, entire, all its skyscrapers, roads, bridges, and embankments. While I was studying this night-time scene, the colonel took his flute from its case and raised it to his lips. His fingers ran over the keys and he ran up and down an octave. A weightless, airy sound drifted over the room like down; it floated out of the window and dissipated, swaying on a branch. The colonel paused for a moment, then the flute gave a squeak like a baby crying softly. Its voice quivered, sighed, muttered, murmured, as if someone were hoarsely praying to the Almighty that every wayfarer by land, sea, or air might reach his destination safely. I seemed to catch something familiar in the mel
