For five hot days last week, crowds of middle-aged men surged through the stuffy halls of Manhattan's Grand Central Palace, chewing cigars and mopping steamy brows. The big building was cluttered with hundreds of little booths—papered with scientific charts, decorated with hearts & flowers, pickled fetuses, stuffed dogs, old bones, trays of purpled lungs and livers, plaster glands, transparent torsos, illuminated pictures of bathing beauties, bearded women, sissified men, monstrosities of all kinds. Shirt-sleeved barkers, with pointers in their hands and cigarets drooping from their lips, tried to entice passers-by to stop...
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