Old Man Rivers

by THOMAS WOLFE

WHEN Old Man Rivers woke up in the morning, among the first objects that his eyes beheld were two large and very splendid photographs that faced each other on the top of his tall chiffonier dresser, and that were divided by the heavy, silver-mounted brush and comb that lay between them. It was a good arrangement: each of the two splendid photographs commanded its own half of the dresser like a bull in his own pasture, and the rich dull solidity of the brush and comb seemed to give each just the kind of “frame,” the kind of proud division, to which it was entitled. In a way, the two splendid photographs seemed to regard each other with the bellicose defiance of a snorting bull: if anyone of this present generation can remember the Bull Durham advertisements of twenty years ago, he may get the idea — three rails of fence, the pasture, the proud bull dominant with the great neck raised, the eyes flashing fire, and the proud rage of his magnificent possession simply smoking from his nostrils, and saying plainer than any words could do: “Here I am and here I mean to stay! This side of the fence is mine! Keep out of here!”

Old Man Rivers more sensed than saw these things when he opened his old eyes. He didn’t see things clearly any more. Things didn’t come to him in the morning as they used to coine. He didn’t wake up easily, he didn’t wake up at once, “all over,” as he used to do; rather his old, tired, faded, somewhat rheumy eyes opened slowly, gluily, and for a moment surveyed the phenomena of the material universe around him with an expression that was tired, old, sad, vague and unremembering.

Presently he roused himself and got up; he got up slowly, with a heavy sigh, and bent to find his slippers with a painful grunt; he was a heavy old figure of a man — a man who had been a big man, big-boned, big-handed, big-shouldered, and big-muscled, and whose bigness had now shrunk and dwindled to a baggy, sagging heaviness; round baggy shoulders, thin legs, sagging paunch — a big man grown old. It took him a long time to bathe, a long time to look at the sad old face reflected in the mirror, the face with the high cheek-bones, the slanting sockets of the eyes, the long wispy moustache, and the scraggly wispy beard, which, with the sensually full red lips and the old tired, yellowed, weary eyes, gave Mr. Rivers a certain distinction of appearance — an appearance not unlike that of a Chinese mandarin.

It took him a long time to shave, too — to do all the delicate work required about the edges of that long, straggling moustache, and that wispy mandarin-like beard to which he owed a good part of the distinction of his personal appearance. He shaved with a straight razor, of course; as he often said, he wouldn’t use “one of these confounded safety razor contraptions” if they gave him the whole factory. But, really, he had become afraid of his old straight razor, which had once been such a friend to him; his old hands shook with palsy now, he had cut himself badly on more than one occasion, shaving had become a slow and perilous affair.

But he felt better after shaving and four fingers of sound rye: — none of your bromo seltzers, aspirins, or soda-tablets, or any of your other quack remedies for him; after a night of old-fashioned cocktails and champagne there was nothing like a good stiff drink of whiskey the next morning to set a fellow up.

Warmed by the liquor, and with a sparkle in his eyes for the first time, Mr. Rivers finished dressing without great difficulty. He grunted his way into his heavy woolen drawers, and undershirt, fumbled with shaky fingers to put cuff links and collar buttons in a clean shirt, grunted as he bent over to pull his socks on, got into his trousers without much effort, but had a hard time with his shoes — confound it, it came hard to have to bend and tie the laces, but he wasn’t going to let any fellow tie his shoes for him! By George, as long as he could move a muscle he’d have none of that!

The worst was over now; fully attired, save for his coat and vest and collar, he stood before the chiffonier, buttoned the wing-collar, and with trembling fingers fumbled carefully with the knot of his cravat. Then he combed his sparse hair with the heavy silver comb, brushed it with the heavy silver brush, and — looked with satisfaction at the two splendid photographs.

The one on the left was really bull-like; the square face was packed with a savage concentration of energy and power, the moustache curved around two rows of horse teeth bared with tigerish joy, behind the spectacles the eyes looked out upon the world with fighter’s glance. Everything about the photograph spoke the brutal eloquence of energy and power, its joyful satisfaction in itself, its delight with life, adventure, friendship, love or hate, its instant readiness for everything. Everything about the picture said: “Here I am boys! I feel bully!” — and this bully-feeling, brutal, savage, joyful, readyfor-fight-or-fun picture was autographed: “To dear old Ned with heartiest and most affectionate regards from Theodore! ”

The other face, no less the fighter’s face, was colder, leaner, more controlled. A long, lean face a little horse-like in its bony structure, horse-like, too, in its big teeth, touched coldly, stiffly round the powerful thin mouth with the sparse smile of the school-teacher; the whole long face borne outward by the powerful long jaw, relentless, arrogant, and undershot, — face of school-teacher marking papers, Presbyterian face, to flesh-pots hostile, to wine, women, belly-warmth, exuberance, and life’s fluidity, unskilled, opposed, and all unknowledgeable, but face of cold high passion, too, fire-glacial face, and face of will unbreakable, no common, cheap, contriving, all-agreeing, all-conceding, compromising, and all-promising face of the ignoble politician, but face of purpose, faith, and fortitude — face of arrogance, perhaps, but face, too, of a captain of the earth, a man inviolable, a high man — and signed: “To Edward Rivers — with sincerest good wishes and — may I say — affectionate regards — Cordially yours — Woodrow Wilson.”

Old Man Rivers’ tired old eyes and haggard face really had the warm glow of life and interest in them now. As he struggled into his vest and coat, he looked at the two photographs, wagged his head with satisfaction, and chuckled: —

Good old Ted! Dear old Tommy! I tell you what, those — those fellows were — were just bully! He just wished everyone in the world could have known both of them the way he had known them! Why, the minute Ted walked in a room and flung down his hat, the place was his. The minute he met you, and shook hands with you — why — he made you his friend forever! By George, there was something about that fellow — just the way he had of coming in a room, or flinging his hat down, or jumping up to shake your hand, and saying, “Delighted” — there — there was just something about everything that fellow did that warmed you up all over!

And Tommy? As Mr. Rivers’ old tired eyes surveyed the long prim face of Tommy, his expression, if anything, became a little softer, a little more suffused with mellowness than when he had surveyed the vigorous countenance of Ted. . . . Tommy! There was a great fellow! He just wished everyone could have known Tommy as he had known him! — Why, confound these fellows, anyway (a kind of indignant and impatient mutter rattled in the old man’s throat) — writing and saying all this stuff about Tommy being cold, unfriendly, not able to warm up to people. — By George, he’d like to tell ‘em what he knew! He’d known Tommy almost fifty years, from the time they were at Princeton right up to Tommy’s death, and there never was a man on earth who had a warmer “human side” than Tommy had! By George, no! Ask anyone who knew him, ask any of Tommy’s friends whether he was cold and unable to warm up —they’d tell you pretty quick how cold he was! Confound these fellows, he’d just like to tell them about some of the great times he’d had with Tommy — some of the things they’d done at college — yes! And even later — he’d just like to tell them about that time when Tommy had all the fellows in the class come and visit him that was in 1917, right when he was in the middle of all that trouble, but you’d never have known it from the way he acted, invited the whole class to come and stay two days and all the fellows who could come came, too — and that was a celebration !

Mr. Rivers surveyed the two photographs a moment longer with a warm color of affection and tenderness in his tired old face, the glow of pride and loyalty in his weary eyes.

It was something to be able to say you’d been the friend of two such fellows as that. It did not occur to Mr. Rivers, it had probably never occurred to him, that it was not only “something to be able to say,” but in the nature of a miracle to be able to accomplish it — something like sitting on Vesuvius and cooling one’s heels at the North Pole at the same time. It was part of Mr. Rivers’ charm that he had never seen anything at all extraordinary in his accomplishment. It is true that there had been times when his friendship for these two celebrated men had been attended by certain moments of embarrassment. There had been the time, for instance, when Theodore had come into his office, tossed his hat across the room, flung himself into a chair, and opened conversation with, “Well, Ned, what’s the news? Have you seen or heard anything lately of that lily-livered, weasel-worded milk-sop down in Washington? Look here, how the devil can you put up with such a fellow?”

And there had been the time when Tommy had broken a pause in the conversation, to inquire acidly: “Are your relations still as cordial as ever with the Buzz-Saw of Sagamore? I’m surprised to see there are no scars of battle on you yet. ”

Well, now, by George — yes, those fellows did say things about each other now and then, but that was just a way they both had of blowing off steam. I don’t think either of them really meant a word of it! By George, I just wish those two fellows could have known each other. They were both — just — just bully — both of them — and — and — and I just believe they’d have gotten along together fine!

2

IT MAY be seen from these interior reflections that Mr. Rivers was not lacking in certain extraordinary gifts. Possessing no talent of any kind — except the genuine and attractive talent for friendships which has been indicated — Mr. Edward Rivers had risen to a very considerable position in the nation’s life. He was now occasionally referred to in the press as “the Dean of American Letters.” Every year upon his birthday, representatives of the New York Times and the New York Herald Tribune called upon Mr. Rivers, interviewed him, and printed his views on a great variety of subjects at a very considerable and respectful length. When questioned by the representative of the New York Times for his opinions on the Modern American girl, the venerable Dean of American Letters had remarked that By George, he just thought she was fine — he thought she was perfectly splendid! And when the young man from the Herald Tribune asked the Dean for his opinion on the state of the nation’s letters, and his opinion of the Younger Writers, the Dean said Well now, he thought the whole thing looked most promising. He liked to see vitality, originality, and a fresh point of view — and he thought these Young Fellows had it, by George he did. What — the Times man would now inquire — did the Dean think about the modern freedom of expression — the tendency to “tell all” in modern writing — to put it bluntly, the use of “four letter words” by some of the young writers, even in the pages of some of the higher class magazines? For example, Rodney’s Magazine, of which the Dean had been for many years the editor, had only a year or two before serialized the latest novel of the celebrated young writer, John Bulsavage. What did the Dean think of the use of certain words in that book — the use of words (and of blank spaces!) which had never before appeared in the chaste pages of Rodney’s Magazine? Was it not true that there had been a great many letters of indignant protest from old subscribers? Had there not been a number of canceled subscriptions? Had the Dean himself approved the inclusion of these debatable scenes and phrases which had caused so much and such excited comment at the time? Was the Dean himself disposed to say that he favored the startling freedom in the use of material and of utterance which characterized the work of some of the leading Young Writers? As a distinguished editor, as an arbiter of the nation’s taste, as a discoverer and supporter of the best that had been said and thought and written in the world of letters for the past fifty years, as a friend of Theodore Roosevelt, and Woodrow Wilson, as a crony of the late Henry van Dyke and William Lyon Phelps, as the esteemed and honored colleague of such distinguished people as Agnes Repplier, Ellen Glasgow, Robert Underwood Johnson, Edith Wharton, Nicholas Murray Butler, John Galsworthy, Henry Seidel Canby, Percy S. Hutchinson, Walter Prichard Eaton, Henry Peckinpaugh Saltonstall, Corinne Roosevelt Robinson, and Elizabeth Pipgras Wiggins, Isabel Miranda Patterson and Irene McGoody Titsworth, Constance Lindsay Skinner and Winona Roberta Snoddy, Edna Lou Walton and Ella Mae Maird, Sylvia Chatfield Bates and Ishbel Lorine McLush, Ben Ray Redman and Edmund Clarence Stedman, Henry Goddard Leach and Warner Perkins Beach, Charles Forbes Goddard and T. Lothrop Stoddard, Constance D’Arcy Mackay and Edna St. Vincent Millay, Hamilton Fish and Lillian Gish — in fact that whole brilliant and distinguished group of authors, editors, and critics who had always stood for the most liberal — nay, the most advanced! — developments in modern literature, but whose judgment was also tempered by a sane balance, a sane adherence to standards of good taste, craftsmanship and form, and to an unwavering belief in the fundamental wholesomeness, purity, and good sense of American life, which the writing of some of these younger writers was prone to forget — what, considering his intimate association with all these distinguished people, did he, Edward Rivers, the Dean of American Letters, think of the work of these Younger Writers?

Well, now — Mr. Rivers squirmed a little at questions such as these. He foresaw complications, disagreements, arguments, and Mr. Rivers did not like complications, disagreements, arguments. He believed in Tact. Well, now — the Dean of American Letters saw stormy weather: he must trim his canvas and sail close. If he came out with whole-hearted and enthusiastic endorsement of the Young Writers, all of their methods, words, and works, he knew that he must be prepared for a vigorous chorus of protest from certain worthwhile people of his distinguished and extensive acquaintance: — letters from venerable dowagers at whose dinner parties he was a frequent guest (Mr. Rivers was a constant diner-out; he had spent a large part of his life in dining out; he dined out every night; his difficulty was not to get invitations, but tactfully to choose between invitations, so that he might not only retain the affection — and future invitations — of those he refused, but could also assure himself of the best dinner, the best liquor, the finest champagne, and the most distinguished and worthwhile gathering among those he accepted) — letters then from venerable old dowagers, from venerable old Vanderbilts, Astors, Morgans, Rhinelanders, Goelets, and Schermerhorns (Mr. Rivers knew all the venerable old Vanderbilts, Astors, Morgans, Rhinelanders, and Schermerhorns), letters from distinguished old ladies who wrote or had written essays for Rodney’s, letters from all the distinguished old widows of all the ambassadors, governors, senators, financiers, college presidents, and presidents of the nation he had known, letters from all the lady writers with three names — the Irene McGoody Titsworths, the Winona Roberta Snoddys, the Elizabeth Pipgras Wigginses, and so on — each letter written in the writer’s own inimitable and distinguished vein, of course, but all showing a certain unity of purpose and opinion — viz: — Could the Dean of American Letters have been quoted correctly? Could they believe their eyes? Could it be possible that the statements attributed to Mr. Rivers in this morning’s edition of the Times accurately represented the considered judgment of that distinguished editor? Could it be true that the celebrated critic who had for fifty years been not only the wise and temperate appraiser, but the arbiter of what was highest, noblest, purest in the world of letters, who had been, for so long and such an honorable career of service, the guardian of the torch, the defender of the “eternal values” — could such a man as this have so forgotten all his standards, have so forsaken all that he had ever stood for, as to uphold, praise, and give the support of his authority to iniquitous filth that posed as “literature” (God save the mark), to defend the use of language which one might expect to find among the low dives of the Bowery, but never within the pages of Rodney’s Magazine, and to praise the relentless “realism” (realism, if you please), the “talent” (talent, the Lord help us), the depraved, imbecilic, brutal, vulgar, and illwritten maunderings of people whose obscenity might conceivably be of interest to the specialist in abnormal psychology, the professional criminologist, the pathologist interested in various states of manic-depressivism, but of serious interest to one of the most distinguished critics living — good heavens! What had happened to him anyway?

3

WELL, now — it was a hard question to decide. It certainly was! A fellow never knew just what to say: if he praised the works, the words, the talents of these Younger Writers, he would let himself in for all this kind of thing from people he knew, some of them his best friends. And if he dispraised the works, the words, the talents of these Younger Writers, then he might expect another flood of letters from the children and the grandchildren of the very people he had sought to please. And these letters from the irreverent young would ask him bluntly who the hell he thought he was, and suggest that he go immediately and reserve accommodations for himself at the Old Woman’s Home. They would tell him further that the serialization of Mr. Bulsavage’s work was the only useful act that Rodney’s Magazine had performed in twenty years, that the magazine was moribund, a museum piece, and under Mr. Rivers’ direction had become a repository for essays on bee-culture written by the aged widows of former ambassadors to Peru. They would finally suggest that Mr. Rivers close his trap and continue to print the works of Mr. Bulsavage and a few other young people, who were doing the only work worth doing nowadays, or else deposit the decayed remains of Rodney’s in the nearest garbage can, and go jump in the river.

By George, what was a fellow going to do? If you pleased one crowd you’d make the other mad. There had been a time when young people had let their elders tell them what to read and what to think, but that was gone. Nowadays you never knew which way to turn. Well, the only way, the Dean decided, was the Middle Way. That was the way he’d always taken, it had always been the right way for him. So when the Times man asked him what he thought about the Younger Writers, and whether he approved, Mr. Rivers squirmed a little, looked uncomfortable, then took the Middle Way.

Well, now, that was a hard question to answer — by George it was. He didn’t approve of everything they did — not by a jugful. He might be old-fashioned, and all that, but he still believed that there were certain Standards — Standards of — of — style, and form, and craftmanship, and — and — good taste, by George he did! If these things should perish, then the world would be the loser, but he didn’t believe for a moment that they would. In the long run, the eternal values would win out. He didn’t believe for a moment that the whole picture of American life, the whole truth of it, its fundamental wholesomeness, and sweetness, and — and —sanity, was being dealt with by these younger writers. He thought that they were too prone to deal with abnormal states of psychology, to present distorted pictures, to go in too much for — for scenes of violence and cruelty — and — and — abnormal and distorted points of view. The War was probably responsible for this condition, the Dean thought. But just as the pendulum had swung too far in one direction, it would probably swing back in the other. As for the Younger Writers, although he didn’t approve of everything they did, he thought their vitality, their freshness, the originality of their point of view, was just splendid! He thought the future of American writing showed great promise. We were undoubtedly going through one of the most interesting and hopeful periods of literary production we had known in a long time. Some of the Younger Writers were people of undoubted talent, and when they had grown a little older, and acquired a more mature point of view, by George, he expected great things from them, (Headlines for tomorrow: “Dean Sees Golden Future For Young Writers,” or “Dean Raps Smut But Praises Promise”).

And so it went the whole way down the line. Old Man Rivers’ opinions on the moving pictures, the radio, the automobile, the machine age, politics, Mr. Roosevelt, the New Deal — in short, on anything that might come within the range of general interest, or a reporter’s inquiry, held firmly to this course of Middle Way”-ism. If he disapproved, his disapproval was such as to cause no general offense. If he approved, his approval was such as the world in general could agree to. There were few things so bad that they might not be worse, almost everything showed promise of betterment. The seeds of hope were in misfortune, the promise of perfection in error.

4

OLD MAN RIVERS, in fact, like that Celebrated Stream which was so much like his own name and which “must know somep’n, but don’t say nothin’,” just kept rollin’, he kept on rollin’ along. The process had been profitable: with no more literary talent than would fit comfortably in the bottom of a thimble, with no more critical ability than the village school-marm possesses, and with no opinions about anything more startling than those usually held by the average filing clerk, he had risen to a position in the nation’s life where his literary talent was taken for granted, his critical ability was esteemed as a very rare and penetrating faculty, and his opinions were largely sought after, and printed with pious completeness in the pages of the New York Times.

Mr. Rivers had, in short, “arrived”; he had arrived solidly, and with both feet; he had arrived substantially and materially through the possession of no other faculties than a genuine capacity for warm and loyal friendship, a tremendous capacity for saying nothing with the air of saying a great deal, a remarkable talent for being all things to all people, and for pleasing everybody, quite a distinguished, mandarin-like, and somewhat goaty (the ladies preferred to call it faun-like) personal appearance, and a very imposing and exceptional — stuffed shirt.

And yet the old man felt sad and lonely nowadays when he woke up in the morning. Why? Mr. Rivers had never been a man who looked too directly at unpleasant facts; the instinctive tendency of his amiable and agreeing nature was to avoid unpleasant facts: to skip over them, or get around them if he could. Yet there had been times in recent years when he had felt, sadly and obscurely, but unmistakably, that something had gone grievously wrong in his own life. There had been times when doubt and sorrow had penetrated the thick hide of his own genial self-satisfaction — when he had wondered if the imposing front was anything but just a — front.

He was old, he was tired, he was sad, he was lonely. He had never married, his life for forty years had been the life of the assiduous diner-out, the “prominent clubman.” Now he wondered if the game was worth it. He had always told himself — and other people, too — that he would know when to quit when the time came. He had celebrated the virtues of the pastoral life, and affirmed his own devotion to the country, time and again, in word and print. Moreover he had used his money, and a small inheritance, thriftily; no one would ever have to look after Old Man Rivers, he was well-fixed. Part of his funds for many years had been invested in a large and very splendid farm in Pennsylvania. Beautifully stocked with sheep and blooded cattle and good horses, it had been the place to which he was going to retire “in his old age.” He had celebrated his country home in conversation and in writing; he had even written a little book about it, called My Sabine Farm,

Well, what detained him now? His old age was here, the quitting time had come. The quitting time, Old Man Rivers occasionally and sorrowfully suspected, had come several years before, when he had been deposed as editor of Rodney’s Magazine. There had been more than a grain of truth in the derisory jibes of young people that Rodney’s had become a museum piece, a repository for essays on bee-culture written by the aged widows of ex-ambassadors. The Magazine, itself a languishing reminder of a by-gone and more leisurely age, had lapsed finally into such musty decrepitude that surgical measures had been necessary if it was going to be saved from utter extinction: Mr. Rivers had been removed as editor, and a young man appointed in his place.

Mr. Rivers had always told himself that he would be prepared for such an event. He hud told himself that he would never let it happen. He had told himself that “when the time came” he would know the time had come, that he would cheerfully “step out” and give “some of the young fellows a chance.” No, he’d be prepared for it, he’d know himself before the others did, the Sabine Farm in Pennsylvania was waiting to receive him.

Comforting fable! Fond delusion! The “time” had come and Old Man Rivers had not known it. He had not stepped out, not known when to quit. Instead, — he had been tapped upon the shoulder and told that he had worn out his welcome, it was time to go.

5

WHEN the time came, Old Man Rivers couldn’t face it. In a painful scene at a directors’ meeting — before old James, Pounders, Fox, and Prince, and Dick — the old man had broken down and wept. He had been told he could be retired upon half pay, that his security would be protected in every way. It was no use. He did not need the money, he was well-off, and they knew it, but he lied, he begged; he said he had dependents, onerous responsibilities, heavy and expensive burdens — that he couldn’t live upon the pension, that he needed the money.

It was a wretched business for everyone. They had put it off for years, they had finally compelled his resignation only when no other course was possible if the Magazine was to survive. The upshot of it was, they let him stay. They made it plain to him that his connection with the Magazine was finished, that in the future he would have no control in its affairs whatever. Then they let him stay on at full pay, called him an “Advisory Editor,” gave him a little office where he would be out of people’s way, where he could piddle around with worthless manuscripts that never got published, receive old cronies, widows of ambassadors, and venerable dowagers of his acquaintance.

It was a hard blow to his pride, a bitter come-down, but it was better than nothing. Mr. Rivers was not such a fool that he didn’t realize a good part of his social popularity came from his position as editor of one of the most distinguished and eminent magazines in America. In recent years, as the fortunes and influence of the Magazine had declined, Mr. Rivers had observed a corresponding decline in his own social prominence. He was no longer in such demand as he had been twenty years before. And now? Well, it was going to be tough sledding from now on. “Advisory Editor"? That didn’t go down so well. It was all very fine to joke about it, to say in his genial, high, foggy tone that he had decided it was time “for some of us old fogies to step aside and give some of the young fellows a chance. So I decided to resign. But they prevailed on me to stay on as — Advisory Editor.” It wasn’t completely convincing, and he knew it, but — it was better than nothing, he could not give up.

Yes, Old Man Rivers had worn out his welcome. And the Sabine Farm? Those final years of a long life spent far from the city’s whirling noise, in the wise and pastoral meditations of retirement —oh, where now? Faced with the actuality, he couldn’t meet it. To give up all the city’s life, his clubs, his bars, his dinner parties and his after-dinner speeches, his dowagers, his rich and fashionable acquaintanceships, for the bucolic tedium of a Pennsylvania farm — he couldn’t do it.

And yet, even the pleasures of this life had staled on him. A large part of his life had been spent in clubs. He was forever telling someone, with a trace of pride: “I live at the University Club — lived there for twenty years — wouldn’t think of living anywhere else. Most comfortable life in the world; you don’t have to fool with apartments, leases, servants, electricity, cooking — it’s all done for you: — you’ve got everything you need right there — good food, a good library and, of course” — here he would wink slyly — “a good bar! I tell you what, that’s mighty important. You just come up with me sometime — I’ll get Tom to fix you one of his famous Old Fashioneds: — Oh, he knows how to fix ‘em, too — you just come up and try a few — you know,” here Mr. Rivers would wink slyly again — “they give ’em to me; I don’t have to pay for a thing; all I have to do is sign for it — ”

Well, even this business of living in clubs and dining out at night had begun to pall on him. He was bored with it, bored with the club faces, bored with the club food, bored with his room. But when he tried to give the whole thing up he couldn’t. He’d been around too long.

There had been a time when “ any old room ” had been good enough for Mr. Rivers. “I’m on the go all the time, anyway,” he used to say. “All I need is a bed to sleep in and a place to hang my hat.” Well, he had that,certainly, and it was no longer good enough. He had never felt the lack before but now he wanted — he wanted — by George, he didn’t know just what, but he wanted “a room of his own.” This morning the old man felt lonely, bored, as he looked around his room. He wanted to get out of it! And yet it was a pleasant enough room: large enough, sunny enough, quiet enough — it looked right out on Fifty-fourth Street at the tall and imposing residences of Mr. John D. Rockefeller and his son. It was well furnished and yet, Mr. Rivers reflected, probably every other room in the club was furnished in the identical fashion of his own room. And if he moved out today, someone else would move in tomorrow morning without ever knowing he had been there; there was nothing about the place to show it was his own. The thought somehow made Mr. Rivers uncomfortable, he shivered a little as he looked about the room, picked up his hat, and got out.

6

ONCE in the corridor, outside his door, his whole demeanor changed. Mr. Rivers was now about to go before the world again, it was up to him, he felt, to put on a good show. His manner became more jaunty, jovial, half-jesting: he walked down the corridor towards the elevator at a springy step, he pressed the elevator button, and as he waited, composed his face into his customary morning expression of jesting raillery.

The elevator came up, the doors opened, Mr. Rivers stepped briskly in, and the bald-headed Irishman who had taken Mr. Rivers up and down for twenty years greeted him with a grin that was really more than casual, a grin that showed a genuine affection and warmth of feeling for his passenger.

“Good-mornin’, Mr. Rivers,” the man said. “It’s a nice fine day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Tim,” said Mr. Rivers, “it’s going to be a beautiful day. By George, it’s a pity that a couple of young fellows like you and me have got to be cooped up on a day like this. Let the old fellows go to work, you and I ought to take the day off — go on a picnic somewhere — take our girl for a ride — by George, we ought!”

“Shure, an’ ye’re right, Mr. Rivers,” Tim agreed. “This is no day for two young bucks like you an’ me to work. There ought to be a law against it,”

“Well, now, that’s right,” said Mr. Rivers, and wagged his head vigorously. They had reached the bottom and the elevator door had opened — “They ought to make the old fellows like Jim here do all the work,” he said, indicating a smiling youth in bell-hop’s uniform who was coming along the corridor. “Isn’t that right, Jim?”

“You’re right, Mr. Rivers,” the boy agreed with a friendly smile, and passed by.

Mr. Rivers’ next move was to cross the lobby of the tremendous building and inquire for mail at the cashier’s office.

“Have you got any more bills — or duns — or advertising matter — or any of those love-letters that the girls keep writing me?” — his florid face was decidedly goat-like now, he leered knowingly at the mail clerk, and winked, speaking in a high, foggy, somewhat wheezy voice that was the perfect vehicle for his brand of humor.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Rivers,” the mail clerk smiled — “It looks as if the girls had written you quite a stack of them this morning. Here you are, sir.”

“Well now, that’s good,” wheezed Mr. Rivers, shuffling through his mail. “We young fellows have to make hay while the sun shines, don’t we? Tempus fidgets, as the fellow says, and if we don’t make the most of our opportunities when we have them, it may be too late before we know it.”

The mail clerk smilingly agreed, and Mr. Rivers, still opening and running through his mail, crossed the lobby to the newsstand.

“Say, young fellow,” he wheezed, “I wonder if you have a copy of a rare old publication known as the New York Times?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Rivers,” grinned the news clerk. “I’ve been saving one for you. Here you are, sir.”

“Now,” said Mr. Rivers warningly, as he picked up the paper and fumbled for a coin — “I don’t want it unless it’s a genuine First Edition. You know, we collectors have got to be very careful about that sort of thing. Our professional reputation is at stake. If it got around that I’d gone and bought a second, or a third, or fourth edition of the Times, thinking that I had a first — why, I’d be ruined. So if you think there’s any doubt about it, I want you to say so, and we’ll call it off.”

The news-dealer smiling assured Mr. Rivers that he thought his professional reputation would be safe, and Mr. Rivers, shaking his head vigorously, wheezed, “Well now, that’s good” — and walked away.

7

ON HIS way to the huge club breakfast room, his high foggy voice could be heard all over the place, either uttering greetings or responding to them. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him, his remarks to everyone were couched in the same tone of pseudo-serious jocosity. In response to an inquiry concerning the state of his health, he was heard to remark that if he felt any better it would hurt him. And in response to someone’s comment about feeling “under the weather,” Mr. Rivers was heard to say that there was nothing like a good stiff shot of rye to help a fellow get “on top of the weather.”

Over breakfast (grapefruit, soft-boiled eggs, dry toast, and strong black coffee) he had time for a more thorough inspection of his mail. It was an average crop. A bill for dues from one of his clubs — Mr. Rivers belonged to eight and was always receiving bills for dues, and always scolding, as he did now, that he was going to “give up” most of them. “It’s all foolishness,” he muttered angrily, as he read the bill and crumpled it away into his pocket — “I don’t go to most of ‘em twice a year, and every time I turn around, it seems I get a bill for something.” A letter from a colleague inviting Mr. Rivers to join a new club — to be called the Editors and Authors — which was just being organized, which would meet on the first Tuesday of every month for dinner, and for “general discussion,” and in which Mr. Rivers could enjoy the privileges of Charter Membership for only twenty-five dollars a year (“We’re all eager to have you, Ned: everyone feels that we can’t really call ourselves the Editors and Authors Club unless you’re a member — do say you’ll join — ” — Mr. Rivers swore vigorously under his breath—.Damn it all, just when a fellow was trying to get out of some of the clubs he did belong to, here comes someone trying to get him into another one — No, sir! He was through! No more clubs for him! Nevertheless, his weary old eyes had a rather appeased look in them as he read the flattering words of the invitation; he read it a second time, and put it away in his inside coat-pocket. He’d think it over, but damned if he was going to join any more of ‘em!).

There was a note from the venerable Mrs. Cornelius Van Allen Hacker reminding him that she was expecting his attendance Saturday night at the Costume Ball to be given at the Waldorf by the Friends of Finnish Freedom: Costume Period, Louis Quinze. This reminded Mr. Rivers profanely that he had not yet been to the Costumer’s to attend to the agony of getting rigged up in his monkey-suit, knee-breeches and drawer ruffles for his stringy shanks, flowered waistcoat, and a powdered wig. A letter from the Friends of Finland Society informing Mr. Rivers that they were sure he would be delighted to subscribe to the valuable work the Society was doing, when they told him what it was (more muttered profanity from the recipient: Damn it, he didn’t want to know what they were doing, they were doing what everyone else was doing — trying to do him!). A note from the widow of the late manufacturer of roofing materials and member of the United States Senate, Mrs. W. Spenser Drake, inviting him to a dinner given for the Irish playwright, Seamus O’Burke, Saturday at eight (Confound it! How the hell could he when he was going to this Friends of Finland thing; did she expect him to come rigged up in his monkey-suit?). An advertisement by a syndicate of hair-restoring quacks, beginning companionably, as follows: “Dear Friend: Your name has been given to us as one of that great and constantly growing group of American business men who are threatened with approaching baldness” — (Threatened! Threatened, hell! Threatened as the Red Coats threaten Philadelphia, as Washington is being threatened by Jubal Early’s raiders — threatened forty years too late, when threats are useless!) — “Your condition, while serious, is by no means hopeless. So many men when they reach your age” — (when they reach my age! Who the hell do they think they’re talking to: A God-damn school-boy!) “ —are prone to think” (— prone to think! Bah!) “—that baldness is incurable! We assure you this is not the case, if you will only act promptly! Act NOW! Even six months’ delay at this stage may be fatal! The Roberts System offers to you an easy, agreeable, and scientific way of recovering your lost hair” — (Offers! Offers, nothing! Offers you an easy and agreeable way of getting your God-damn throat cut at no expense to anyone except yourself! Offers to you an easy, agreeable, and scientific method of being swindled, fleeced, and robbed by a crowd of quacks and thieves and cut-throats who ought to be in jail! Offers! — Bah!)

Muttering angrily, Old Man Rivers crumpled the offending letter into a wadded ball and threw it on the floor. It was all the same nowadays! There was some sort of trick to everything! Everywhere you turned, someone was out to do you! — Even — even Society — dining out — going to parties — had turned into a kind of —a kind of Racket! There weren’t even any real friendships any more; everyone was trying to see what he could get out of you! Even when you got invited out, you had to subscribe to something, give money to some damn fool organization, serve on committees, dance attendance on some visiting Irish popinjay, fill in at the last moment to make a fourteenth at dinner, be introduced as “Mr. Edward Rivers, the former editor of Rodney’s Magazine.” By George, he was getting good and sick of it! Eor — for two cents, he’d chuck the whole business, and go down to live on his farm in Pennsylvania! Most sensible life on earth, anyway! And the people down there in the country were real people — they had none of your fancy city ways, but they weren’t all out to do you! You knew where you stood with them — by George you did!

8

THE old man picked up the Times with an impatient rattle. There was very little in those crisp soberly packed columns to console him. Strikes — strikes — strikes; picketing and riots; hunger lines; and sixteen millions out of work! Confound it, what were we coming to anyway? Banks closing everywhere, banks being closed forever, banks being partially reopened, thousands of depositors losing all their savings, the President and his counselors pleading with the people for calmness, steadiness, faith, and prophets of gloom direly predicting even worse times to come — total collapse — revolution perhaps — communism; armies, armaments, and marching men, threats of war everywhere; the “whole world a snarl of passion, hate, and error — confusion everywhere, bewilderment, a new time, a new age, with nothing fixed or certain — nothing he could understand; the Stock Market in a state of bankruptcy — (Mr. Rivers surveyed the shattered columns of the stock reports, and groaned; another three point drop in a stock which he had bought at 87, and which was now 12 and a fraction) — nothing but trouble, ruin, and damnation everywhere —

“Oh, Ned! Ned! ‘ —At the sound of the sly voice at his shoulder, Mr. Rivers looked up sharply, startled and bewildered: —

“Hey? . . . What? . . . Oh, hello, Joe. I didn’t see you.”

Joe Paget bent a little lower over Old Man Rivers’ shoulder, and before he spoke looked slyly round with eyes blood-shot, injected from the liquefactions of the night before: —

“Ned,” he whispered and nudged the old man with a slyly prodding thumb — “Did you see it? Did you read it?”

“Hey?” said Mr. Rivers, still bewildered. “What’s that, Joe? Read what?”

Joe Paget looked slyly round again before he answered. This was a sensual old man’s face, high colored, with a thin, corrupted mouth, a face touched always by a sly and obscene humor, the whispering and impotent lecheries of an old worn-out rake.

“Did you read the story about Parsons?” Joe Paget asked in a low tone.

“Who? What? — Parsons? No — what about him?” Mr. Rivers said, in a startled tone.

Joe Paget glanced furtively around again; his red face suffused to purple, his red eyes blurred, low laughter struggled in his throat, his shoulders heaved: —

“He’s being sued for breach of promise,” said Joe Paget “ — by an actress: she claims they’ve been sharing the same apartment since October — has all the letters to prove it. She’s suing for a hundred thousand.”

“No!” wheezed Mr. Rivers, frankly stupefied. “You don’t mean it!” After a moment, however, he wagged his head with energetic decision, and said: “Well, now, we mustn’t be too hasty! We mustn’t make up our minds too fast! I’m going to wait until I hear what Parsons has to say before I make up mine. That kind of woman will try anything. The woods are full of ‘em nowadays: — they’re just out to fleece anyone they can — they won’t stop at blackmail, slander, lies, or anything! By George, if I were a judge, I’d be inclined to treat ‘em pretty rough! —For all we know, the woman may be some kind of — of — adventuress, who met Parsons somewhere and — and — why, the whole thing may be nothing but a frame-up! That’s just what I think it is!”

“Well,” said Joe Paget in a low voice, looking slyly around again, before he spoke — “maybe. I don’t know — only the papers say she’s got a great stack of his letters and — ” the lecherous old rake glanced carefully around again, lowered his voice to a confiding whisper, and slyly nudged Old Man Rivers as he spoke — “You know, he’s not been round the club much for the past six months — none of the fellows have seen much of him and — ” Joe Paget again glanced slyly round, and dropped his voice — “during the past week he hasn’t been here at all —”

“No!” said Mr. Rivers, astounded.

“Yes,” Joe Paget whispered, and glanced round again “— and for the last three days he hasn’t even showed up at the office. No one knows where he is. So, you see — ”

His voice trailed off, he glanced craftily around again, but the suggestion of lecherous and smothered glee in his lewd old face and thin corrupted mouth was now unmistakable.

“Well, now— ” began Old Man Rivers uncertainly, and cleared his throat — “We musn’t be too — ”

“I know,” Joe Paget said in a low tone and looked around “ — but still, Ned — ”

Mr. Rivers fingered his goaty whiskers reflectively, and in a moment looked slyly around at Joe Paget. And Joe Paget looked slyly back at Old Man Rivers. For a moment their sly glances met and crossed and spoke — the old lecher and the aged goat — they looked quickly away again, then back, with sly communication at each other. A faint sly grin was now faintly printed round the mouth of Old Man Rivers, something low and guttural rattled in Joe Paget’s throat, his florid face suffused to purple, he looked around him carefully, and then bent lower, shaking with repressed but obscene mirth: —

“But, Christ!” he chortled — “I have to laugh when I think of the look on J.T.’s face when he sees it!” He looked slyly round again, then with suffusing face: “And Parsons! What do you suppose he feels like! — coming into the office every day to finish up that work he’s been doing on the Acts of the Apostles— ” Joe Paget gasped.

“ — And tearing off a little now and then Between the Acts — ” wheezed Mr. Rivers.

“You’d better say, Between the Actress, hadn’t you?” Joe Paget choked, and nudged his copesmate with lewd fingers.

“God!” wheezed Mr. Rivers, in a high choked gasp and put his napkin to his streaming eyes.

“ — But that’s a good one, ‘y God, it is!”

“Writing those little Sunday school books of his about Faith, Hope, and Charity — ”

“And finding out, by God, there’s damned little charity,” gasped Mr. Rivers.

“He got out one,” Joe Paget choked, “called ‘All Is Not Gold That Glitters’ ” —

“Whew!” wheezed Mr. Rivers, wiping at his streaming eyes, and “Whee!” moaned Joseph Paget softly, and glanced about him with injected and lewd-crafty eyes.

So did these two old men, the lecher and the goat, wheeze and chortle with lewd ruminations in the shining morning of young May. Old bald gray heads of other dotards turned towards them be-puzzled, frowned. Behind the cover of respectful fingers waiters smiled.

9

PROMPTLY at nine-twenty, as had been his custom on every working day for twenty years, Mr. Rivers departed briskly from the Club, turned round the corner into Fifth Avenue, and directed his morning footsteps towards the office of James Rodney & Co.

As usual, he had some genial wheeze of greeting for everyone: the door-man, and the call-boys; club members; the policeman directing traffic at the corner, the elevator men at Rodney’s, the office boy on the fifth floor, where he got out, and where he had his office, Miss Dorgan, the stenographer, Fox, Pounders, old James, Tom T. Toms — anyone who came within the range of his amiable and wheezing observation. All went well — or almost all — this morning along that well-known and often-traveled route; the old man received and bestowed greetings everywhere — in the course of twenty years his eccentrically distinguished person had become familiar to a great many people, even in the thronging traffic of the city’s life. At an intersection, however, something occurred to break the genial tenor of his morning’s journey: just as the old man had started to cross over to the other side of the street, where Rodney’s was situated, a taxi, swiftly driven, shot around to turn the corner, and almost clipped him. Mr. Rivers halted with a startled yell, the taxi halted with wheels sharply cut, and screaming brakes. For a moment, the genial appearance of the old man’s temper was swallowed utterly in the swelling distemper of an old man’s rage — blind, swift, sudden, frightened, and malevolent: one clenched and knotted old fist shot out, he shook it menacingly in the taxidriver’s face, and yelled out in a voice that could be heard a block: —

“You God-damn scoundrel, you! I’ll have you put in jail, that’s what I’ll do.”

To which the taxi-driver, young, hard, swarthy, and unmoved, made answer: “O.K., Toots. Whatever you say!”

Mr. Rivers then went his way muttering; before he reached the other side, however, he turned again, and yelled a final denunciation: “You’re a menace to the public safety, that’s what you are! They’ve got no business giving fellows like you a license! ”

He was still muttering angrily about it when he entered the elevator at Rodney’s; he responded curtly to the greeting of the elevator man, got out at the fifth floor and entered his office without speaking to anyone.

By ten o’clock, however, he had forgotten it. The usual assortment of morning letters absorbed his attention — the useless letters from useless old people who knew him, or who knew useless old people who knew him. Some were letters of introduction from useless old people introducing other useless old people who had a useless old manuscript that they wanted to get published. Others were just letters from useless old people sending along the useless old manuscripts which they themselves had written.

The business of reading these letters, of answering them, of examining all the useless old manuscripts gave Old Man Rivers a glow of pleasure, an agreeable feeling of importance. It was somehow very satisfying to be so eagerly sought and solicited by so many well-placed and important people; to have his opinion eagerly solicited by the widow of a defunct ambassador for the manuscript, “Memoirs of An Ambassador’s Wife” — By George, that ought to get published! People were getting tired of all this stuff about gangsters, and prize-fighters, and bull-fighters, and street-fighters, and booze-fighters — they were getting tired of all this sex and profanity, and vulgarity, and filth — they’d like to read about Nice People for a change. Well, here it was, then, the very thing, all about the court-life and the diplomatic life of Vienna in the days before the War, all kinds of interesting anecdotes about famous people — Franz Joseph, the Empress, their children, the great statesmen, the foreign ambassadors — and written by a woman who knows what she’s talking about, related to the Stuyvesant family, and more at home in Europe than she is in America, by George! . . . Why wouldn’t people want to read a book like that? — written by a real lady, and with nothing in it that’s likely to offend the feelings of other people of good taste and breeding.

Or, here now: — here was something that looked promising. This manuscript that came in just this morning, highly recommended too by Mrs. William Poindexter Van Loan: — says the author is her brotherin-law, been all over the world, has been a sportsman, yachtsman, big-game hunter, had a racing stable, was a member of the diplomatic service, and is the eldest son of the late Henry C. Gipp, the oil man. “Adventures of an Amateur Explorer” by Henry C. Gipp, Jr., — by George, it sounded as if there might be something in the thing; it looked Promising, and he was going to look into it right away.

Mr. Rivers’ method of “looking into” something which he considered Promising was simple and direct. He had followed it for twenty years or more while he was Editor of Rodney’s Magazine, and he was faithful to it yet. First of all, when he had received a manuscript which sounded Promising, which came to him with the warmest recommendations of people of undoubted standing, and the highest Social Position, Mr. Rivers immediately looked up the author of the manuscript in the Social Register. If the author of the manuscript was in the Social Register, Mr. Rivers was very considerably impressed. Nay, it would be more accurate to say that Mr. Rivers was now weighed down by a feeling of grave and solemn responsibility; the light of serious and concerned reflection would deepen in his eyes, it was evident that a matter of some moment had presented itself, and that all his most mature and serious powers of critical appraisal would be called into use, if he was to arrive at a fair judgment.

10

THE second step of Mr. Rivers’ critical technique was marked by the same clarity of purpose, the same cold and surgical directness. Having looked up the author of the Promising manuscript in the Social Register and found, just as he had suspected all the time, that he was there, — Mr. Rivers then turned his eagle-eyed pursuit to an investigation of the bulkier, but no less enlightening, pages of Who’s Who. And if he found him here, name, birth, age, parentage, denomination, university, degrees, honors, offices, publications, clubs, all padded out to very imposing proportions (Mr. Rivers always measured when he used Who’s Who), then, by George, that just about clinched the matter as far as he was concerned: his vote was for it.

Well, then — “Adventures of An Amateur Explorer,” by Henry C. Gipp, Jr. — Mr. Rivers thumbed rapidly, and with a practiced thumb, through the chaste pages of the Social Register: — Yes, sir! just as he thought, — of course, anyone who was the brother-in-law of Mrs. William Poindexter Van Loan, would be in — together with his wife — his first three wives, that is (M. 1st (1905) Ellen Aster De Kaye (see also Mrs. Charles Lamson Turner, Mrs. H. Tracy Spencer); m. 2nd (1913) Margaret Ferris Stokes (see also Mrs. F. Mortimer Payne, Mrs. H. Tracy Spencer (1st), the Princess Pinchabelli; and 3rd (1922) Mabel Dodson Sprague (see also the Princess Pinchabelli (2nd), together with all his children by all three marriages — no, wait a minute; his third wife’s children by her second marriage, his first wife’s children by her third marriage; his second wife’s children by her — well, anyway, here it was, a little confusing, perhaps, but all there, a whole page of them! —

— And —almost with trembling haste, with darkling apprehension, Mr. Rivers now approached and rapidly thumbed through the bulky pages of Who’s Who — Now, let him see: Gibbs — Gibson — Gifford — Gilchrist — Gilroy — Gimble — Gipp! — Ah, there he was — and, by George, a good stick, too (Mr. Rivers measured with an expert finger) —three good inches at the least! . . . Yes, sir! — let’s see now . . . son of the late Henry C. and Ethel Pratt. . . . St. Paul’s and Harvard — hm! . . . Knickerbocker, Union, Racquet, New York Yacht, and Essex County Hunt (better and better). . . . And, yes, an author, too: “Adventures of An Amateur Angler ” (1908); “Adventures of An Amateur Mountaineer” (1911); “Adventures of An Amateur Yachtsman” (1913); “Further Adventures of An Amateur Yachtsman ” (1924); “Adventures of An Amateur Geologist”(1927).

By George! This looked like something! Breathing heavily, Mr. Rivers got up, picked up the manuscript with trembling fingers, and started down the long aisle that led from his own office at the back of the building to the office of Fox, in the front.

“Now, Edwards,” Mr. Rivers began without preliminary in his high foggy voice as he entered Foxhall Edwards’ office, “it looks to me we’ve got something here worth looking into — fellow comes to me with the highest recommendations, brother-in-law of Mrs. William Poindexter Van Loan, son of the late Henry Gipp, the big oil man — and all that — looked him up in the Social Register myself,” wheezed Mr. Rivers — “and yes! — been all over the world she says — big-game hunter, yachtsman, mountain climber, used to row on the crew at Harvard — ”

Fox, who had been standing at the window, hat jammed down about his ears, and hands hanging to his coat lapels, as he looked down with sea-pale, lonely, and abstracted eyes at the swirling tides of life and traffic in Fifth Avenue, five floors below, now turned slowly, stared at Old Man Rivers with a bewildered expression, and finally, in a low, deaf, puzzled tone, said slowly: —

“ Wha-a-t? ” Seeing the manuscript in Old Man Rivers’ hand, Fox said slowly, in a tone of quiet resignation: “Oh-h!” — then turned back sadly to his lonely, seapale contemplation of the street again.

“Yes,” wheezed Mr. Rivers foggily, in a tone indicative of considerable excitement — “ — says he’s been everywhere, all over the world, done everything, says he’s really a very remarkable kind of fellow— ”

“Wha-a-t?” says Fox, turning slowly, in a slow, deaf, bewildered tone again — “Who-o-o?”

“Why—this — this — this Gipp fellow, Mrs. Van Loan, I mean -no! Her brother-in-law — the one who wrote this thing here,” Mr. Rivers wheezed excitedly (Confound that fellow, Mr. Rivers thought impatiently, you never know how to talk to him. You tell him all about something — something important like this — and his mind’s a thousand miles away from you all the time. He just looks out the window and doesn’t hear a word you say) — “but I’ve gone into the whole matter carefully,” wheezed Mr. Rivers, “ — and the way it looks to me, Edwards, we’ve got something here that we ought to consider very carefully. I’ve looked up his whole record — he’s written a half-dozen books — Adventures, you know, in one thing or another and,” Mr. Rivers wheezed triumphantly, “ — he’s got that much in Who’s Who!” — as he uttered these words, Mr. Rivers made a descriptive gesture with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, to indicate that “that much” meant at least three or four inches.

For a moment Fox looked at him with an expression of blank astonishment. Still hanging to his coat lapels, he bent, craned his neck, and peered at Mr, Rivers’ thumb and forefinger with a look of utter stupefaction.

“I say,” streamed Mr. Rivers, at the foggy apex of his voice — “ he’s — got — that — much — in — Who’s Who!” (God-damn it, he thought, what’s wrong with the fellow anyway? Can’t he understand a word you say to him?)

“Oh-h,” said Fox slowly. Slowly, and with an effort, his soul swam upwards from sea-sunken depths. “All right, I’ll look at it,” he said.

“Well, now,” Mr. Rivers wheezed, a little mollified, and shaking his head with vigorous emphasis — “that’s what I think, now! I think we’ve got something here we ought to look into.”

11

WITHIN these words Mr. Rivers departed, going down the aisle past clicking typewriters, past Fred Busch busy with his telephone, past the two partitioned libraries, past the little reception vestibule where the office boy, a stenographer, and several hopeful-hoping authors were waiting to see Fox, Dick, Fred Busch, George Hauser, or someone else about their manuscripts, and so back into his own little dark, partitioned cubby-hole of an office. As he went, Old Man Rivers wagged his whiskers vigorously and muttered to himself. By George, now, he hoped they’d wake up around this place, and take advantage of their opportunities! They’d turned down everything else he’d ever brought them, but he hoped they’d wake up and do something this time, before they lost this fellow, too. That fellow Edwards, now, might be all right in a literary sort of way, but he didn’t seem to have any enterprise — to — to — to show any practical judgment. Here he’d brought him people time and again — well-known people with long write-ups in Who’s Who and he’d just let them slip right through his fingers. What was the good of calling yourself an editor, anyway, if you were just going to look out the window all day long and let someone else snap up all the good people you could have had yourself. Sometimes it looked as if some of these young fellows nowadays were fifty years behind the times. It almost looked as if it took the old war-horseto show ‘em!

Old Man Rivers had got back to his office by this time. He went in, sat down at his desk, tilted back in his swivel chair for a moment, and with his veinous old hands resting on the armrests, stared reflectively for a moment at his desk. He felt tired, exhausted by his effort, by the excitement of his latest discovery, by his efforts to persuade and impress Edwards. Also he felt a little lonely. He looked at his watch. It was only eleven-thirty in the morning — still too early to go to lunch — and he had finished all he had to do. He had answered all the letters that he had to answer: the neatly typed replies lay in a clean sheaf before him. All he had to do was sign them, and Miss Dorgan would do the rest. So what to do? — how to kill the time? — how to look busy between now and lunch? And after lunch? He could spend three hours comfortably at lunch — from twelve to three with some of his cronies at the University Club: a good meal, good drinks, brandy, and a good cigar. But, then, the rest of the afternoon, from three to five, stretched out before him. He ought to come back to his office if only for the sake of keeping up appearances, but what was there to do? To sit there in that office staring at the fresh green blotter on his tidy desk — the prospect left him desolate.

He straightened with a jerk, dropped pen in ink-well, and began to sign the letters. When he had finished he wheezed out: “Oh, Miss Dorgan.”

“Yes, Mr. Rivers?” — she came at once, a pleasant, red-cheeked, friendly looking girl, who had her typist’s desk outside his office.

“Now, these letters here,” he wheezed and waved toward them — “they’re all signed and ready to be mailed. So you can take them when you’re ready.”

“Yes, Mr. Rivers. And will that be all?”

“Well, now,” he wheezed “ —was that all the mail there was?”

“Yes, that was all, Mr. Rivers.”

“Well, then,” he said, “I guess that’s all, then, for the present. . . . There’s no one waiting out there to see me?” he demanded, with a flare of hope.

“No, Mr. Rivers. There’s been no one today.”

“Well, then,” he mumbled, “I guess that’s all then for the present. . . . Oh, I don’t suppose there was any more mail?” — hopefully.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Rivers. If you’ll just wait a moment I’ll see if anything came in the second delivery.”

“Well, now,” the old man mumbled, “maybe you’d better do that.”

She left him, and in a moment returned with a single letter. Mr. Rivers snatched it almost greedily.

“This just came, Mr. Rivers.” She hesitated a little, “Do you think it’s anything that needs to be tended to right away? It — it looks as if it might“be an advertising folder.”

“Well now, I don’t know,” said Mr. Rivers, and shook his head dubiously. “You can’t tell about these things — you never know what’s in ‘em. For all I know, it might be something important, something I ought to attend to right away —”

Meanwhile, he was examining the envelope with palsied hands: suddenly the inscription Who’s Who In America caught his weary eyes, and fixed them with the sudden spark of interest —

“By George, yes,” Mr. Rivers wheezed, and began to run a trembling finger underneath the flap — “Just as I thought — this looks as if it might be something that I ought to attend to right away.”

“Then you’ll call me if you need me?” said Miss Dorgan.

Mr. Rivers wagged his goatish head with solemn affirmation: —

“You go right on out there and sit down,” he kindly wheezed — “If it’s something that we’ve got to do, why — ” solemnly he wagged his goatish head again — “I’ll let you know-.”

12

LEFT alone, Mr. Rivers opened the letter and observed the contents. A brief note informed him that a proof of his biography, as recorded in the last edition of Who’s Who, was enclosed, and requested him to make any necessary changes or additions, and return the proof for the forthcoming edition as soon as possible.

This was something! It just went to show that a fellow never could be too careful — something important that ought to be attended to right away, might turn up at any moment! Well, he’d just look into this right now, and see what needed to be done.

Mr. Rivers adjusted his spectacles and began to read the proof of his biography — two-thirds of a column of fine dense type. As he went on, the last traces of weariness, boredom, and dejection vanished. The old man’s eyes began to sparkle, his cheeks flushed with a glow of ruddy color, he had begun to read with an air of editorial alertness, but this shortly vanished, was supplanted almost instantly by a look of growing fascination, the rapt absorption of the artist enchanted by the contemplation of his own creation.

By George, this was something now! When a fellow was feeling blue or depressed, all he had to do was take a look at this! There he was, in black and white, the sum of him, the record of him, the dense chronicle of his accomplishment! And if he did say so himself, it was pretty good! Pretty good for the son of a country doctor! Why (Old Man Rivers thumbed rapidly through the pages of Who’s Who before him on the desk — ) — there weren’t over a half-dozen fellow s in the whole book who had as much as he had (Barr — Barrett — Burroughs — Butler) — Nick Butler, now, he had more, of course, all of those learned societies and honors he had received abroad, and things he belonged to in France and England, they ran the score up, but there weren’t many like that. And having satisfied himself that this was true, Mr. Rivers returned to a contemplation of his own score, which ran as follows: —

Rivers, Edward Schroeder; Publicist and Editor. B. Hamburg Falls, Pa., May 2, 1857, s. of the late Dr. Joseph C. and Augusta (Schroeder) R. Ed. at public schools and at the Lawrenceville Academy, A.B. Princeton University, 1879: Student at Heidelberg and the University of Berlin, 18791880. Associated with publishing house of James Rodney & Co. since 1881. Unmarried. Presbyt’n. Associate Editor Rodney’s Magazine 1886—1902; Editor-in-Chief Rodney’s Magazine, 1902—1930; Advisory Editor James Rodney & Co. since 1930.

Member following societies, organizations, honorary fellowships and institutions: Sons of The American Revolution; Sons and Daughters of the Tribe of Pocahontas; National Affiliation of Colonial Families (Regional Sec. 1919-1924); Children of William Penn; and President Hamburg Falls Historical Ass’n (since 1894).

Also, Friends of The Pilgrim Fathers; International Union of the Society of Hands Across the Sea; the English Speaking Union; National Association of Descendants of the Early Huguenots; National Association of the Friends of Lafayette; The Steuben Society; National Preparedness Guild; American League Against War and Fascism; Society of The Friends of The American Constitution; also Friends of the Russian People; Friends of Poland; Friends of Norway; Spanish-American Fellowship for Lhe Promotion of Friendly Relations Between the Republics of the North and South American Continents; American Liberty League; Civic Liberties Union; and Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

Also, Member International Writers Guild For The Promotion of An International Point of View Among the Writers of All Nations (Founder, and Honorary President since 1913); the International Society For the Dissemination of Good Manners and Standards of Culture; the League for Social Democracy; the League of National Magazine Editors (Affiliated with the International League of Magazine Editors); the League For the Promotion of Friendlier Relations Between Publishers and Authors; the League For the Control of a Wise and Wholesome Censorship; the National League for the Protection of National Ideals, Morals, and Standards of Purity; and the P.E.N. Club.

Also, author of the following books of verse, fiction, essays, travel, biography, autobiography, and criticism: A Yankee Pilgrim On the Rhine (1881); Eternal Values (1884); Literature and Morals (1885); Leadership and Letters (1888); Literature and The Good Life (1891); Rondels For Rita (1894); Maypoles For Margaret (1896); When Prue And I Were Young, Maggie (1897); A Sheaf of Sonnets (1898);

A Bouquet of Ballads (1899); Lyrics For Louise (1900); Jed Stone’s Conversion (1902); The Ordeal of Abner Ames (1904); Enid’s Enigma (1905); Their Golden Wedding (1907); Mrs. Coke’s Confession (1909); An Editor’s Edifications (1910); Confessions of An Incomplete Angler (1911); My Sabine Farm (1913); Kinsmen Once and Brothers Yet (1914); France and Freedom (1915); Shall England Perish? (1916); The Hun and Hatred (1918); Friendship’s Folly (1920); Ted and Tom: A Memoir (1922); and A Greybeard’s Garland (1926).

Clubs: The Ivy, University, Princeton, Century, Players, Lotos, Coffee House, Dutch Treat, Collectors, Scriveners, Rod and Gun, Cuff and Link, Hound and Horn, and The Hamburg Falls (Pa.) Country.

Address: The University Club, New York City.

By George, now! This was something! Mr. Rivers leaned back in his swivel chair, and rocked gently back and forth for a moment, staring at the column of dense print before him with an air of profound and contemplative satisfaction. The weary, sad, dejected old man of a few minutes ago had been transformed. Gone was his dejection, vanished his boredom, flown away on wings of hope the last vestiges of self-doubt, loneliness, and depression. When a fellow was feeling low — when he had doubts — when he wondered if the whole thing had been worth all the trouble, let him look at that! And let the others look at it, too. There he was, there was the whole story down in black and white, if they wanted to know who he was, what he had done, just let them look at that.

For a moment longer he rocked back and forth reflectively. Then clearing his throat, and raising his head, he wheezed out in a high and foggy tone: —

“Miss Dorgan.”

“Yes, Mr. Rivers.” Smiling, the girl appeared at once.

“Now,” Mr. Rivers wheezed, clearing his throat again — “ — Hem!” he wheezed, and rocked back and forth reflectively a moment “ — Well, now — ” he fumbled at the inside pocket of his coat with shaking fingers, took out the letter he had put there that morning, and again inspected it — “Well, now, Miss Dorgan,” Mr. Rivers said, “ —down there where it says ‘Clubs’ —do you see where I mean?” —

“Yes, Mr. Rivers.”

“Well, put in down there, member of the Editors and Authors Club — put down, ‘Charter Member’” •—

“Yes, Mr. Rivers. But are you a member yet?”

“Well, now,” said Mr. Rivers, a trifle testily, “ —no! Not exactly! But I’m going to be—” In response to the faintly amused question in the girl’s eyes, the old man wagged his head defensively, and said: “— Well, now, I know I said I wasn’t going to join any more — and I’m not — only this is something I’ve got to do! They said they wouldn’t feel right calling it an Editors and Authors Club unless they had me in there. — But that’s the last one: I’m through after this. But you put that in there, where it says ‘Clubs,’”

“Yes, Mr. Rivers, Member of the Editors and Authors Club.”

“—Hem! Yes. . . . Charter member: don’t forget to put that in.”

“Yes, Mr. Rivers. Will that be all?”

“—Hem! Yes, I think so! . . . Now, you’d better got that right off as soon as you can, Miss Dorgan,” he wheezed admonishingly. “They say the time is short, and for all we know we may hold up the whole edition if we’re late.”

“Yes, Mr. Rivers. I’ll mail it right away.”

When she had gone, the old man rocked back and forth a moment longer. There was a little smile of pleased reflection round his mouth. It was funny what a thing like that could do. It made him feel good, set him light up! Here he’d been down in the dumps just half an hour ago, with no interest in anything — and now! —Mr. Rivers looked at his watch and jumped up briskly. It was twelve o’clock. He’d go to the Club, get Tom to fix him an Old Fashioned, and order a whacking good lunch. He felt in the mood for it, by George he did!

The Old Man picked up his hat and left the office. A moment later he was in the street, walking briskly along among the thronging crowds, in the direction of the Club.