«You don’t explain it,» said Ulric, making a wry grin. «That’s why things never happen to me, I guess… But I do want to say this,»» he continued, getting up from his seat and frowning over his own cussedness, «whenever you find yourself in a real pinch you can always rely on me. You see, I don’t worry much about your privations usually because I know you well enough to realize that you’ll always find a way out, even if I happen to let you down.» «You sure have a lot of confidence in my ability, I must say.»
«I don’t mean to be callous when I say a thing like that. You see, if I were in your boots I’d be so depressed that I wouldn’t be able to ask a friend for help—I’d be ashamed of myself. But you come running up here with a grin, saying—’I must have this… I must have that.’ You don’t act as if you needed help desperately.»
«What the hell,» I said, «do you want me to get down on my knees and beg for it?»
«No, not that, of course. I’m talking like a damned fool again. But you make people envious of you, even when you say you’re desperate. You make people refuse you sometimes because you take it for granted that they should help you, don’t you see?» «No, Ulric, I don’t see. But it’s all right. Tonight I’m taking you to dinner.»
«And to-morrow you’ll be asking me for carfare.» «Well, is there any harm in that?» «No, it’s just cock-eyed,» and he laughed. «Ever since I know you, and I know you a long while, you’ve been hitting me up—for nickels, dimes, quarters, dollar bills…. why once you tried to bludgeon me for fifty dollars, do you remember? And I always keep saying no to you, isn’t that so? But it doesn’t make any difference to you apparently. And we’re still good friends. But sometimes I wonder what the hell you really think of me. It can’t be very flattering.»
«Why, I can answer that right now, Ulric,» I said blithely: «You’re….»
«No, don’t tell me now. Save it! I don’t want to hear the truth just yet.»
We went to dinner down in Chinatown and on the way home Ulric slipped me a ten dollar bill, just to prove to me that his heart was in the right place. In the park we sat down and had a long talk about the future. Finally he said to me what so many of my friends had already told me—that he had no hopes for himself but that he was confident I would break loose and do something startling. He added very truthfully that he didn’t think I had even begun to express myself, as a writer. «You don’t write like you talk,» he said. «You seem to be afraid of revealing yourself. If you ever open up and tell the truth it will be like Niagara Falls. Let me tell you honestly—I don’t know any writer in America who has greater gifts than you. I’ve always believed in you—and I will even if you prove to be a failure. You’re not a failure in life, that I know, though it’s the craziest life I’ve ever known of. I wouldn’t have time to paint a stroke if I did all the things you do in a day.»
I left him, feeling as I often did, that I had probably underestimated his friendship. I don’t know what I expected of my friends. The truth is I was so dissatisfied with myself; with my abortive efforts, that nothing or nobody seemed right to me. If I were in a jam I would be sure to pick the most unresponsive individual, just to have the satisfaction of wiping him off my list. I knew full well that in sacrificing one old friend I would have three new ones by the morrow. It was touching, too, to run across one of these discarded friends later on and find that he bore me no hatred, that he was eager and willing to resume the old ties, usually by way of a lavish meal and an offer to lend me a few dollars. In the back of my head there was always the intention of surprising my friends one day by paying off all debts. Nights I would often lull myself to sleep by adding up the score. Even at this date it was already a huge sum, one that could only be settled by the advent of some unexpected stroke of fortune. Perhaps one day some unheard-of relative would die and leave me a legacy, five or ten thousand dollars, whereupon I would immediately go to the nearest telegraph office and dispatch a string of money orders to all and sundry. It would have to be done by telegraph because if I were to keep the money in my pocket more than a few hours it would vanish in some foolish, unexpected way.
I went to bed that night dreaming of a legacy. In the morning the first thing I heard was that the bonus had been declared—we might have the dough before the day was over. Everybody was in a state of agitation. The burning question was—how much? Towards four in the afternoon it arrived. I was handed something like 350 dollars. The first man I took care of was McGovern, the old flunkey who guarded the door. (Fifty dollars on account.) I looked over the list. There were eight or ten I could take care of immediately—brothers of the cosmococcic world who had been kind to me. The rest would have to wait until another day—including the wife whom I had decided to lie to about the bonus. Ten minutes after I had received the money I was arranging to throw a little spread at the Crow’s Nest where I had decided to make the pay-off. I checked rip the list again to make sure I had not overlooked any of the essential ones. They were a curious lot, my benefactors. There was Zabrowskie, the crack telegrapher, Costigan, the knuckle-duster, Hymie Laubscher, the switch-board operator, O’Mara, my old crony whom I had made my assistant, Steve Romero from the main office, little Curley, my stooge, Maxie Schnadig, an old stand-by, Kronski, the interne, and Ulric of course… oh yes, and MacGregor, whom I was paying back merely as a good investment.
All told I would have to shell out about three hundred dollars—250 dollars in debts and a possible fifty for the banquet. That would leave me flat broke, which was normal. If there were a five spot left over I’d probably go to the dance hall and see Mara.
As I say, it was an incongruous group I had gathered together, and the only way to unite them in fellowship was to make merry. First of course I paid them off. That was better than the best hors d’oeuvre. Cocktails followed promptly and then we fell to. It was a staggering meal I had ordered and there was plenty to wash it down with. Kronski, who was not used to liquor, got tipsy almost immediately. Had to go out and stick a finger down his throat long before we came to the roast duckling. When he rejoined us he was pale as a ghost: his face had the hue of a frog’s belly, a dead frog floating on the scum of a stinking swamp. Ulric thought he was a rum bird—had never met a type like that before. Kronski, on the other hand, took a violent dislike to Ulric, asking me on the side why I had invited a polite fart like that. MacGregor positively detested little Curley—couldn’t understand how I could be friendly with such a venomous little crook. O’Mara and Costigan seemed to be getting along best of all; they fell into a lengthy discussion about the relative merits of Joe Gans and Jack Johnson. Hymie Laubscher was trying to get a hot tip from Zabrowskie who made it a point never to give tips because of his position.
In the midst of it a Swedish friend of mine named Lundberg happened to walk in. He was another one I owed money to but he never pressed me to pay up. I invited him to join us and, taking Zabrowskie aside, I borrowed back a ten spot in order to settle accounts with the new arrival. From him I learned that my old friend Larry Hunt was in town and eager to see me. «Get him here,» I urged Lundberg. «The more the merrier.»
While the festivities were in full swing, after we had sung «Meet Me To-Night in Dreamland» and «Some of These
