spot about eight years ago. He wanted to put up an office building, but if he built a conventional stone masonry structure, the walls would have to be so thick he wouldn't have enough rentable space to turn a profit. It seemed as if he'd bought himself a white elephant."
"A white
elephant
!" Michael repeated, mystified. Sara explained; Alex continued.
"So he went to an architect, fellow named Bradford Gilbert. Gilbert thought and thought for about six months, and finally decided the solution was to build something like a steel bridge or a cage and stand it up on one end. That way the walls could be only a foot thick, and they wouldn't have to bear any weight at all."
"But how? What holds the
walls
up?" Michael wanted to know. "Long steel columns sunk deep into a cement footing underground."
"It still doesn't seem possible," said Sara.
"That's what everybody thought. But Gilbert was so sure, he offered to move into the top two floors himself, and if the building fell down he'd fall with it."
"Are all architects so brave and intrepid?"
"Yes, all," he assured her, straight-faced. "And Gilbert got to prove his mettle one Sunday morning when the building was all finished except for the roof. Guess what happened."
"What?" prodded Michael. "A hurricane hit."
"Gosh!"
Steams and Gilbert rushed over to see what was happening to their building. There was already a crowd around it, everybody yelling that the thing was damn well going to blow down. Dam well. The wind was gusting at eighty miles an hour and people started backing up, saying they didn't want to be crushed when it fell.
"Gilbert grabbed a plumb line and started to climb a ladder the workmen had left out the night before. Steams was right on his heels. 'You fools, you'll be killed!' shouted the crowd, but they kept climbing. Stearns' courage gave out on the tenth floor, he sprawled full-length on a scaffold and started praying for his life. Architects are made of sterner stuff, though, as everyone knows, and Gilbert kept going." Alex glanced down into Michael's wide-eyed, open-mouthed face, intent on the building opposite and the scene his imagination was conjuring. "On and on he climbed, rung by painful rung, knuckles white from the strain, the wind blowing and battering at him like a son of a—unmercifully. Finally he reached the thirteenth floor and crawled on his hands and knees along the scaffold to that corner of the building there. See it?"
"Yes!"
"He pulled the plumb line from his pocket, got his frozen fingers around the cord, and dropped the leaded end down toward the sidewalk. And what do you think?"
"What?"
"There wasn't the slightest vibration. The building stood steady as a rock in the ocean."
"Gosh," Michael mouthed, awed.
"When Gilbert and Steams got back to the ground, the crowd cheered them like heroes. They locked arms and started up Broadway, singing, 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow.' People coming out of Trinity Church were sore amazed."
While Michael ogled the Tower Building and hummed the hymn under his breath, Sara murmured, "Mr. McKie, is any of that true?"
"Every word, Mrs. Cochrane. Architects never lie."
It was a warm, breezy afternoon with the smell of rain in the air. They started up Broadway, looking for a streetcar that wasn't already full of bankers and Stock Exchange men heading home from work. Sara realized she'd been more fashionable than wise when she'd chosen the feathered and flowered "cartwheel" hat that went with her beige walking suit; every few steps she had to reach up with both hands to keep it from blowing off in the wind. Finally a car came that they could squeeze into, but they had to stand all the way. "Look, a parade!" cried Michael, pointing through the window at a crowd of people marching toward them on Canal Street. Sara peered, but she couldn't read their placards at this distance. They weren't paraders, she explained, they were pickets, men on strike against their employer. "Oh," said Michael.
"A white
elephant
!" Michael repeated, mystified. Sara explained; Alex continued.
"So he went to an architect, fellow named Bradford Gilbert. Gilbert thought and thought for about six months, and finally decided the solution was to build something like a steel bridge or a cage and stand it up on one end. That way the walls could be only a foot thick, and they wouldn't have to bear any weight at all."
"But how? What holds the
walls
up?" Michael wanted to know. "Long steel columns sunk deep into a cement footing underground."
"It still doesn't seem possible," said Sara.
"That's what everybody thought. But Gilbert was so sure, he offered to move into the top two floors himself, and if the building fell down he'd fall with it."
"Are all architects so brave and intrepid?"
"Yes, all," he assured her, straight-faced. "And Gilbert got to prove his mettle one Sunday morning when the building was all finished except for the roof. Guess what happened."
"What?" prodded Michael. "A hurricane hit."
"Gosh!"
Steams and Gilbert rushed over to see what was happening to their building. There was already a crowd around it, everybody yelling that the thing was damn well going to blow down. Dam well. The wind was gusting at eighty miles an hour and people started backing up, saying they didn't want to be crushed when it fell.
"Gilbert grabbed a plumb line and started to climb a ladder the workmen had left out the night before. Steams was right on his heels. 'You fools, you'll be killed!' shouted the crowd, but they kept climbing. Stearns' courage gave out on the tenth floor, he sprawled full-length on a scaffold and started praying for his life. Architects are made of sterner stuff, though, as everyone knows, and Gilbert kept going." Alex glanced down into Michael's wide-eyed, open-mouthed face, intent on the building opposite and the scene his imagination was conjuring. "On and on he climbed, rung by painful rung, knuckles white from the strain, the wind blowing and battering at him like a son of a—unmercifully. Finally he reached the thirteenth floor and crawled on his hands and knees along the scaffold to that corner of the building there. See it?"
"Yes!"
"He pulled the plumb line from his pocket, got his frozen fingers around the cord, and dropped the leaded end down toward the sidewalk. And what do you think?"
"What?"
"There wasn't the slightest vibration. The building stood steady as a rock in the ocean."
"Gosh," Michael mouthed, awed.
"When Gilbert and Steams got back to the ground, the crowd cheered them like heroes. They locked arms and started up Broadway, singing, 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow.' People coming out of Trinity Church were sore amazed."
While Michael ogled the Tower Building and hummed the hymn under his breath, Sara murmured, "Mr. McKie, is any of that true?"
"Every word, Mrs. Cochrane. Architects never lie."
It was a warm, breezy afternoon with the smell of rain in the air. They started up Broadway, looking for a streetcar that wasn't already full of bankers and Stock Exchange men heading home from work. Sara realized she'd been more fashionable than wise when she'd chosen the feathered and flowered "cartwheel" hat that went with her beige walking suit; every few steps she had to reach up with both hands to keep it from blowing off in the wind. Finally a car came that they could squeeze into, but they had to stand all the way. "Look, a parade!" cried Michael, pointing through the window at a crowd of people marching toward them on Canal Street. Sara peered, but she couldn't read their placards at this distance. They weren't paraders, she explained, they were pickets, men on strike against their employer. "Oh," said Michael.
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