The foreman in the composing room waited some time for that required
column and a half of editorial copy. I lit my pipe; and my thoughts
ran back to the old days, to the many times Dan had paid my debts and
to the many times I had paid his. Ah, me! those were days when love
and fame and riches were elusive and we went in quest of them. The
crust is hyssop when the heart is young. The garret is a palace when
hope flies unfettered. The most wonderful dreams imaginable are dreamt
close to the eaves. And when a man leaves behind him the garret, he
also leaves behind the fondest illusions. But who--who would stay in
the garret!
And as my thoughts ran on, the question rose, Whom would they send in
his place--Dan's? I knew London. It was familiar ground. Perhaps
they might send me. It was this thought which unsettled me. I was
perfectly satisfied with New York. Phyllis lived in New York. There
would be time enough for London when we were married. Then I began to
build air castles. A newspaper man is the architect of some splendid
structures, but he thoughtlessly builds on the sand when the tide is
out. Yes, foreign corresponding would be all well enough, I mused,
with Phyllis at my side. With her as my wife I should have the envy of
all my fellow craftsmen. We should dine at the embassies and the
attaches would flutter about us, and all London would talk of the
beautiful "Mrs. Winthrop." Then the fire in my pipe-bowl went out.
The copy boy was at my elbow again.
"Hang you!" said I.
"The foreman says he's coming down with an axe," replied the boy.
It was like churning, but I did manage to grind the copy. I was
satisfied that the United States and Great Britain would not go to war
over it.
The late afternoon mail brought two letters. I opened the one from
Phyllis first. It said:
"DEAR JACK--Uncle Bob has a box for the opera to-night, but he has been
suddenly called to Washington; politics, possibly, but he would not
say. Aunty and I want you to go with us in his stead. Ethel and her
fiance, Mr. Holland, will be together, which means that Aunty and I
will have no one to talk to unless you come. Carmen is to be sung.
Please do not fail me.
"PHYLLIS."
Fail her! I thought not.
Then I read the second letter. I read it three or four times, and even
then I was not sure that I was not dreaming. I caught up my pipe
again, filled it and lit it. I read the letter once more. I was
solemnly informed that my uncle was dead and that I was mentioned in
the will, and that if I would kindly call at the Hoffman House the
following morning a certain sum of money would be given to me. I
regretted that I had reached that age when a man's actions must be
dignified, although alone; otherwise I dare say I should have danced
the pas seul. Whatever my uncle's bequest might be, I believed that it
would make me independently rich. I am ashamed to admit that I did not
feel sorry at the news of his sudden departure from this life. It is
better to be rich than to be ambitious. It is better to have at hand
what you want than to work for it, and then not get it. Phyllis was
scarcely an arm's length away now. I whistled as I locked up my desk,
and proceeded down stairs and sang a siren song into the waxen ears of
the cashier.