half after eight
At West Street , where Broadway intersects , the red sun at its far end settled redly and cleanly to sink like a huge coin into the horizon . The Popular Store emptied itself into this hot pink glow , scurried for the open street-car and , oftener than not , the overstuffed rear platform , nose to nose , breath to breath . Fortunately the Popular Store took its semi-annual inventory of yards and not of souls . Such a stock-taking , that of the human hearts which beat from half after eight to six behind six floors of counters , would have revealed empty crannies , worn thin in places with the grind of routine . The eight-thirty-to-six business of muslin underwear , crash toweling , and skirt-binding . The great middle class of shoppers who come querulous with bunions and babies . The strap-hanging homeward ride .