seven o'clock Monday morning
`` Good ! '' P. Sybarite extended one of his small , delicately modelled hands . `` Shake , '' said he , smiling wistfully . When they had locked in the Genius of the Place to batten upon itself until seven o'clock Monday morning , P. Sybarite and Mr. Bross , with at least every outward semblance of complete amity , threaded the roaring congestion in narrow-chested Frankfort Street , boldly breasted the flood tide of homing Brooklynites , won their way through City Hall Park , and were presently swinging shoulder to shoulder up the sunny side of lower Broadway . To be precise , the swinging stride was practised only by Mr. Bross ; P. Sybarite , instinctively aware that any such mode of locomotion would ill become one of his inches , contented himself with keeping up -- his gait an apparently effortless , tireless , and comfortable amble , congruent with bowed shoulders , bended head , introspective eyes , and his aspect in general of patient preoccupation . From time to time George , who was maintaining an unnatural and painful silence , his mental processes stagnant with wonder and dull resentment , eyed his companion askance , with furtive suspicion . Their association was now one of some seven years ' standing ; and it seemed a grievous thing that , after posing so long as the patient butt of his rude humour , P.S. should have so suddenly turned and proved himself the better man -- and that not mentally alone .