lattering
notices, mostly in journals unheard of, and swift oblivion after some
months. But I care nothing that I may be a scrub among writers, for the
occupation suits me. I am not ambitious, and I can rise late in the
morning, pound the keys of my old machine for an hour before lunch,
waste a good part of the afternoon in one of the libraries, and go to
work again after the hand-organs and knife-grinders have been abed some
hours. Then, some time before sunrise, the rattle of milk-carts remind
me of Mrs. Milliken's bedspring and mattress, and I go to bed. I am not
doing so badly, and sell one or two short stories every month. Last year
I opened an account in the savings bank. The time may come when I shall
be classed among the malefactors of great wealth.

"But one reader ever wrote to me," I finally answered. "It was a young
person anxious to know whether I could recommend the 'City's Wrath' as a
birthday present to a Baptist aunt. I advised against it, thus cheating
myself out of ten per cent. royalty on a dollar thirty-five."

"Oh! She'd have sent a second-hand copy," he answered consolingly, and
shifted to a discussion of the ultimate blackening of vermilions, which
seemed to give him some concern.

After this he looked at his watch and declared he had just twenty-five
minutes to get to the Lambs Club. That's just like him; he will loll and
sprawl around for hours with you, looking like a man without a
responsibility in the world, and suddenly arise and sprint away to far
regions, always arriving in the nick of time. My way is to prepare far
in advance to meet my rare engagements, to think of them persistently,
and, usually, to arrive ten minutes late.

I walked over to the subway with him, at such a breathless pace that I
wondered if the friendly policeman would change his mind about us,
should we meet him in crossing the square. Gordon left me at the
entrance, with a wave of one hand, the other searching for a nickel, and
I was permitted to return leisurely to my domicile, in a profuse
perspiration. I felt my wilted collar, knowing that Gordon would
unquestionably reach the club, looking spick and span. That's also one
of his traits.

As I crossed the square again, I saw a belated tramp leading an
emaciated yellow dog by a string. The man looked hungrier than the dog,
and I broke all precepts of political economy by handing him a dime. He
was blameworthy, for he should have looked out for himself, and not h