|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 24
Breitmann took the speaker by the arm, and turned him round.
Fitzgerald had been standing with his back to the light. The scrutiny
was short. The eyes of the Bavarian softened, though the quizzical
wrinkles at the corners remained unchanged. All at once his whole
expression warmed.
"It is you? And what do you here?" extending both hands.
Some doubt lingered in Fitzgerald's mind; yet the welcome was perfect,
from whichever point he chose to look. "Come in to breakfast," he
said, "and I'll tell you."
"My table is here; sit by the window. Who was it said that the world
is small? Do you know, that dinner in Paris was the first decent meal
I had had in a week? And I didn't recognize you at once! _Herr
Gott_!" with sudden weariness. "Perhaps I have had reason to forget
many things. But you?"
Fitzgerald spread his napkin over his knees. There was only one other
man breakfasting. He was a small, wiry person, white of hair, and
spectacled, and was at that moment curiously employed. He had pinned
to the table a small butterfly, yellow, with tiny dots on the wings.
He was critically inspecting his find through a jeweler's glass.
"I am visiting friends here," began Fitzgerald. "Rear Admiral
Killigrew was an old friend of my father's. I did not expect to
remain, but the admiral and his daughter insisted; so I am sending to
New York for my luggage, and will go up this morning." He saw no
reason for giving fuller details.
"So it must have been you who brought the admiral's note. It is fate.
Thanks. Some day that casual dinner may give you good interest"
The little man with the butterfly bent lower over his prize.
"Do you believe in curses?" asked Breitmann.
"Ordinary, every-day curses, yes; but not in Roman anathemas."
"Neither of those. I mean the curse that sometimes dogs a man, day and
night; the curse of misfortune. I was hungry that night in Paris; I
have been hungry many times since, I have held honorable places;
to-day, I become a servant at seventy-five dollars a month and my bread
and butter. A private secretary."
"But why aren't you with some newspaper?" asked Fitzgerald, breaking
his eggs.
Breitmann drew up his shoulders. "For the same reason that I am
renting my brains as a private secretary. It was the last thing I
could find, and still retain a little self-respect. My heart was dead
when the admiral told me he had already engaged a secretary. But your
note brought me the position."
"But the newspapers?"
"None of them will employ me."
"In New York, with your credentials?"
"Even so."
"I don't quite understand."
"It would take too long to explain."
"I can give you some letters."
"Thank you. It would be useless. Secretly and subterraneously, I have
had the bottom knocked out from under my feet. Why, God knows! But no
more of that. Some day I will give you my version."
The little man smiled over his butterfly, took out a wallet, something
on the pattern of a fisherman's, and put the new-found specimen into
one of the mica compartments, in which other dead butterflies of
variant beauty reposed.
"So I become a private secretary, till the time offers something
better." Breitmann stared at the sea.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|