The waiting man pulled out a handsome watch, the lids of it set with small diamonds.
Three minutes to ten, he announced. It was exactly ten oclock when we parted here at the restaurant door.
Did pretty well out West, didnt you? asked the policeman.
You bet! I hope Jimmy has done half as well. He was a kind of plodder, though, good fellow as he was. Ive had to compete with some of the sharpest wits going to get my pile. A man gets in a groove in New York. It takes the West to put a razor-edge on him.
The policeman twirled his club and took a step or two.
You bet! I hope Jimmy has done half as well. He was a kind of plodder, though, good fellow as he was. Ive had to compete with some of the sharpest wits going to get my pile. A man gets in a groove in New York. It takes the West to put a razor-edge on him.
The policeman twirled his club and took a step or two.
Ill be on my way. Hope your friend comes around all right. Going to call time on him sharp?
I should say not! said the other. Ill give him half an hour at least. If Jimmy is alive on earth hell be here by that time. So long, officer.
Good-night, sir, said the policeman, passing on along his beat, trying doors as he went.
There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from its uncertain puffs into a steady blow. The few foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed hands. And in the door of the hardware store the man who had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain almost to absurdity, with the friend of his youth, smoked his cigar and waited.
About twenty minutes he waited, and then a tall man in a long overcoat, with collar turned up to his ears, hurried across from the opposite side of the street. He went directly to the waiting man.
Is that you, Bob? he asked, doubtfully.
Is that you, Jimmy Wells? cried the man in the door.
Bless my heart! exclaimed the new arrival, grasping both the others hands with his own. Its Bob, sure as fate. I was certain Id find you here if you were still in existence. Well, well, well! twenty years is a long time. The old restaurants gone, Bob; I wish it had lasted, so we could have had another dinner there. How has the West treated you, old man?
Bully; it has given me everything I asked it for. Youve changed lots, Jimmy. I never thought you were so tall by two or three inches.
Oh, I grew a bit after I was twenty.
Doing well in New York, Jimmy?
Moderately. I have a position in one of the city departments. Come on, Bob; well go around to a place I know of, and have a good long talk about old times.
The two men started up the street, arm in arm. The man from the West, his egotism enlarged by success, was beginning to outline the history of his career. The other, submerged in his overcoat, listened with interest.
At the corner stood a drug store, brilliant with electric lights. When they came into this glare each of them turned simultaneously to gaze upon the others face.
The man from the West stopped suddenly and released his arm.
Youre not Jimmy Wells, he snapped. Twenty years is a long time, but not long enough to change a mans nose from a Roman to a pug.
It sometimes changes a good man into a bad one, said the tall man. Youve been under arrest for ten minutes, Silky Bob. Chicago thinks you may have dropped over our way and wires us she wants to have a chat with you. Going quietly, are you? Thats sensible. Now, before we go on to the station heres a note I was asked to hand you. You may read it here at the window. Its from Patrolman[194] Wells.
The man from the West unfolded the little piece of paper handed him. His hand was steady when he began to read, but it trembled a little by the time he had finished. The note was rather short.
Bob: I was at the appointed place on time. When you struck the match to light your cigar I saw it was the face of the man wanted in Chicago. Somehow I couldnt do it myself, so I went around and got a plain clothes man[195] to do the job.
JIMMY.
Lost on Dress Parade
Mr. Towers Chandler was pressing his evening suit in his hall bedroom[196]. One iron was heating on a small gas stove; the other was being pushed vigorously back and forth to make the desirable crease that would be seen later on extending in straight lines from Mr. Chandlers patent leather shoes to the edge of his low-cut vest. So much of the heros toilet may be intrusted to our confidence. The remainder may be guessed by those whom genteel poverty has driven to ignoble expedient. Our next view of him shall be as he descends the steps of his lodging-house immaculately and correctly clothed; calm, assured, handsome in appearance the typical New York young clubman setting out, slightly bored, to inaugurate the pleasures of the evening.
Chandlers honorarium was $18 per week. He was employed in the office of an architect. He was twenty-two years old; he considered architecture to be truly an art; and he honestly believed though he would not have dared to admit it in New York that the Flatiron Building[197] was inferior in design to the great cathedral in Milan[198].