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Page 12
"Write your epitaph, Jack," drawled a deep voice from the reading
table. "That's the only sure way, and even that is no good if your
marble is spongy."
"Oh, Cathewe, this is not your funeral," retorted the editor.
"Perhaps not. All the same, I'll be chief mourner if Jack takes up
novel writing. Critics don't like novels, because any one can write an
average story; but it takes a genius to turn out first-class magazine
copy. Anyhow, art becomes less and less particular every day. The
only thing that never gains or loses is this _London Times_. Someday
I'm going to match the _Congressional Record_ and the _Times_ for the
heavyweight championship of the world, with seven to one on the
_Record_, to weigh in at the ringside."
"You've been up north, Arthur," said Fitzgerald. "What's your advice?"
"Don't do it. You've often wondered how and where I lost these two
digits. Up there." The _Times_ rattled, and Cathewe became absorbed
in the budget.
Arthur Cathewe was a tall, loose-limbed man, forty-two or three, rather
handsome, and a bit shy with most folk. Rarely any one saw him outside
the club. He had few intimates, but to these he was all that
friendship means, kindly, tender, loyal, generous, self-effacing. And
Fitzgerald loved him best of all men. It did not matter that there
were periods when they became separated for months at a time. They
would some day turn up together in the same place. "Why, hello,
Arthur!" "Glad to see you, Jack!" and that was all that was necessary.
All the enthusiasm was down deep below. Cathewe was always in funds;
Fitzgerald sometimes; but there was never any lending or borrowing
between them. This will do much toward keeping friendship green. The
elder man was a great hunter; he had been everywhere, north and south,
east and west. He never fooled away his time at pigeons and traps; big
game, where the betting was even, where the animal had almost the same
chance as the man. He could be tolerably humorous upon occasions. The
solemn cast to his comely face predestined him for this talent.
"Well, Fitz, what are you going to do?"
"Hewitt, give me a chance. I've been home but a week. I'm not going
to dash to the Pole without having a ripping good time here first.
Will a month do?"
"Oh, the expedition doesn't leave for two months yet. But we must sign
the contract a month beforehand."
"To-day is the first of June; I promise to telegraph you yes or no this
day month. You have had me over in Europe eighteen months. I'm tired
of trains, and boats, and mules. I'm going fishing."
"Ah, bass!" murmured Cathewe from behind his journal.
"By the way, Hewitt," said Fitzgerald, "have you ever heard of a chap
called Karl Breitmann?"
"Yes," answered Hewitt. "Never met him personally, though."
"I have," joined in Cathewe quietly. He laid down the Times. "What do
you know about him?"
"Met him in Paris last year. Met him once before in Macedonia. Dined
with me in Paris. Amazing lot of adventures. Rather down on his luck,
I should judge."
"Couple of scars on his left cheek and a bit of the scalp gone; German
student sort, rather good-looking, fine physique?"
"That's the man."
"I know him, but not very well." And Cathewe fumbled among the other
newspapers.
"Dine with me to-night," urged Hewitt.
"I'll tell you what. See that Italian over there with the statues? I
am going to buy him out; and if I don't make a sale in half an hour,
I'll sign the dinner checks."
"Done!"
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