Times Square is at the juncture of Broadway, Seventh Avenue and Forty-second Street. It is the very heart of uptown Broadway. Not the downtown Broadway of finance and of towering buildings, but the Broadway of theatres, restaurants, gay crowds and bright lights. It is bustling, congested, whirling. It is in a constant state of being rebuilt and repaired. Its sidewalks are littered with timbers, pipes, derricks and showy women. One hears jazz music and Klaxtons. It is the playground of the pleasure seeker, the battleground of the taxis, the dream of the chorus girl on the road, and the nightmare of the traffic cop. It is white lights, green lights, red lights, — flashing, spinning and winking. It is noise, crowds, motion. Sun and storm, day and night it roars along, churning, — a whirlpool in a mighty river. Incongruous, incessant, enormous.