the
Nebraska State Journal and introduced himself as Stephen Crane. He
stated that he was going to Mexico to do some work for the Bacheller
Syndicate and get rid of his cough, and that he would be stopping in
Lincoln for a few days. Later he explained that he was out of money
and would be compelled to wait until he got a check from the East
before he went further. I was a Junior at the Nebraska State
University at the time, and was doing some work for the State
Journal in my leisure time, and I happened to be in the managing
editor's room when Mr. Crane introduced himself. I was just off the
range; I knew a little Greek and something about cattle and a good
horse when I saw one, and beyond horses and cattle I considered
nothing of vital importance except good stories and the people who
wrote them. This was the first man of letters I had ever met in the
flesh, and when the young man announced who he was, I dropped into a
chair behind the editor's desk where I could stare at him without
being too much in evidence.

Only a very youthful enthusiasm and a large propensity for hero
worship could have found anything impressive in the young man who
stood before the managing editor's desk. He was thin to emaciation,
his face was gaunt and unshaven, a thin dark moustache straggled on
his upper lip, his black hair grew low on his forehead and was
shaggy and unkempt. His grey clothes were much the worse for wear
and fitted him so badly it seemed unlikely he had ever been measured
for them. He wore a flannel shirt and a slovenly apology for a
necktie, and his shoes were dusty and worn gray about the toes and
were badly run over at the heel. I had seen many a tramp printer
come up the Journal stairs to hunt a job, but never one who
presented such a disreputable appearance as this story-maker man. He
wore gloves, which seemed rather a contradiction to the general
slovenliness of his attire, but when he took them off to search his
pockets for his credentials, I noticed that his hands were
singularly fine; long, white, and delicately shaped, with thin,
nervous fingers. I have seen pictures of Aubrey Beardsley's hands
that recalled Crane's very vividly.

At that time Crane was but twenty-four, and almost an unknown man.
Hamlin Garland had seen some of his work and believed in him, and
had introduced him to Mr. Howells, who recommended him to the
Bacheller Syndicate. "The Red Badge of Courage" had been published
in the State Journal t