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“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” | Nick | when they’d be back?” “No.”<|quote|>“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. Can’t say.” | “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.”<|quote|>“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody | everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.”<|quote|>“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. | referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.”<|quote|>“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I | completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.”<|quote|>“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only | holocaust was complete. IX After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.”<|quote|>“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. | and the chauffeur helped him to pump it up. Then he gave instructions that the open car wasn’t to be taken out under any circumstances—and this was strange, because the front right fender needed repair. Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool. Once he stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among the yellowing trees. No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep and waited for it until four o’clock—until long after there was anyone to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees. The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried down to the pool. There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water. It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete. IX After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.”<|quote|>“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where | of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.”<|quote|>“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”</|quote|>“I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire | The Great Gatsby |
I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: | No speaker | “I don’t know. Can’t say.”<|quote|>I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:</|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, | How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.”<|quote|>I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:</|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust | after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.”<|quote|>I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:</|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after | his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.”<|quote|>I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:</|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though | convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.”<|quote|>I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:</|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with | that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.”<|quote|>I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:</|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem | open car wasn’t to be taken out under any circumstances—and this was strange, because the front right fender needed repair. Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool. Once he stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among the yellowing trees. No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep and waited for it until four o’clock—until long after there was anyone to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees. The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried down to the pool. There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water. It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete. IX After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.”<|quote|>I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:</|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on | her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.”<|quote|>I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:</|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a | The Great Gatsby |
“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” | Nick | he lay and reassure him:<|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in | go into the room where he lay and reassure him:<|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler | and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:<|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very | because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:<|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my | So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:<|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next | out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:<|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family | Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool. Once he stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among the yellowing trees. No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep and waited for it until four o’clock—until long after there was anyone to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees. The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried down to the pool. There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water. It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete. IX After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:<|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went | toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water. It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete. IX After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him:<|quote|>“I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This | The Great Gatsby |
Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. | No speaker | I’ll get somebody for you—”<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.</|quote|>“Will you ring again?” “I’ve | worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.</|quote|>“Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very | where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.</|quote|>“Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked | some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.</|quote|>“Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the | in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.</|quote|>“Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no | kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.</|quote|>“Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle | and the chauffeur asked him if he needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among the yellowing trees. No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep and waited for it until four o’clock—until long after there was anyone to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees. The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried down to the pool. There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water. It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete. IX After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.</|quote|>“Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality | into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—”<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.</|quote|>“Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a | The Great Gatsby |
“Will you ring again?” | Nick | no one answered the phone.<|quote|>“Will you ring again?”</|quote|>“I’ve rung three times.” “It’s | was long after five, and no one answered the phone.<|quote|>“Will you ring again?”</|quote|>“I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid | worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.<|quote|>“Will you ring again?”</|quote|>“I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked | address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.<|quote|>“Will you ring again?”</|quote|>“I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his | surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.<|quote|>“Will you ring again?”</|quote|>“I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more | “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.<|quote|>“Will you ring again?”</|quote|>“I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The | o’clock—until long after there was anyone to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees. The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried down to the pool. There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water. It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete. IX After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.<|quote|>“Will you ring again?”</|quote|>“I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and | adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.<|quote|>“Will you ring again?”</|quote|>“I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” | The Great Gatsby |
“It’s very important.” | Nick | again?” “I’ve rung three times.”<|quote|>“It’s very important.”</|quote|>“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s | the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.”<|quote|>“It’s very important.”</|quote|>“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to | for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.”<|quote|>“It’s very important.”</|quote|>“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: | “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.”<|quote|>“It’s very important.”</|quote|>“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his | referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.”<|quote|>“It’s very important.”</|quote|>“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When | afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.”<|quote|>“It’s very important.”</|quote|>“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, | it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees. The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried down to the pool. There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water. It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete. IX After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.”<|quote|>“It’s very important.”</|quote|>“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for | rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.”<|quote|>“It’s very important.”</|quote|>“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the | The Great Gatsby |
I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: | No speaker | I’m afraid no one’s there.”<|quote|>I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:</|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve | times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”<|quote|>I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:</|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for | book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”<|quote|>I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:</|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his | them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”<|quote|>I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:</|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. | confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”<|quote|>I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:</|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true | the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”<|quote|>I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:</|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? | that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees. The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried down to the pool. There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water. It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete. IX After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”<|quote|>I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:</|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told | was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”<|quote|>I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:</|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was | The Great Gatsby |
“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” | Gatsby | protest continued in my brain:<|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”</|quote|>Someone started to ask me | Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:<|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”</|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away | “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:<|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”</|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. | Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:<|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”</|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was | vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:<|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”</|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I | racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:<|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”</|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was | have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees. The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried down to the pool. There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water. It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete. IX After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:<|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”</|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” | a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water. It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete. IX After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain:<|quote|>“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”</|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far | The Great Gatsby |
Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. | No speaker | can’t go through this alone.”<|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.</|quote|>Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and | got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”<|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.</|quote|>Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let | all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”<|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.</|quote|>Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as | the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”<|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.</|quote|>Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the | But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”<|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.</|quote|>Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and | at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”<|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.</|quote|>Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys | and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees. The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried down to the pool. There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red circle in the water. It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete. IX After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”<|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.</|quote|>Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up | reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”<|quote|>Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.</|quote|>Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was | The Great Gatsby |
Yours truly | No speaker | completely knocked down and out.<|quote|>Yours truly</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty | thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.<|quote|>Yours truly</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know | important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.<|quote|>Yours truly</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s | has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.<|quote|>Yours truly</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They | to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.<|quote|>Yours truly</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone | lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.<|quote|>Yours truly</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come | newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.<|quote|>Yours truly</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” | But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.<|quote|>Yours truly</|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved | The Great Gatsby |
Meyer Wolfshiem | No speaker | down and out. Yours truly<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem</|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: | this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem</|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the | and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem</|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very | one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem</|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a | York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem</|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral | reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem</|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on | in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem</|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a | and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly<|quote|>Meyer Wolfshiem</|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left | The Great Gatsby |
and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. | No speaker | out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem<|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.</|quote|>“This is Slagle speaking …” | am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem<|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.</|quote|>“This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. | get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem<|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.</|quote|>“This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York | the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem<|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.</|quote|>“This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation | a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem<|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.</|quote|>“This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey | “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem<|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.</|quote|>“This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer | out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem<|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.</|quote|>“This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get | him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem<|quote|>and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.</|quote|>“This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take | The Great Gatsby |
“Yes?” | Nick | “This is Slagle speaking …”<|quote|>“Yes?”</|quote|>The name was unfamiliar. “Hell | very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …”<|quote|>“Yes?”</|quote|>The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? | the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …”<|quote|>“Yes?”</|quote|>The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five | is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …”<|quote|>“Yes?”</|quote|>The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as | except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …”<|quote|>“Yes?”</|quote|>The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in | ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …”<|quote|>“Yes?”</|quote|>The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, | he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …”<|quote|>“Yes?”</|quote|>The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” | to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …”<|quote|>“Yes?”</|quote|>The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from | The Great Gatsby |
The name was unfamiliar. | No speaker | is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?”<|quote|>The name was unfamiliar.</|quote|>“Hell of a note, isn’t | thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?”<|quote|>The name was unfamiliar.</|quote|>“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There | funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?”<|quote|>The name was unfamiliar.</|quote|>“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you | anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?”<|quote|>The name was unfamiliar.</|quote|>“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. | more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?”<|quote|>The name was unfamiliar.</|quote|>“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. | again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?”<|quote|>The name was unfamiliar.</|quote|>“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked | bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?”<|quote|>The name was unfamiliar.</|quote|>“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have | somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?”<|quote|>The name was unfamiliar.</|quote|>“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is | The Great Gatsby |
“There haven’t been any wires.” | Nick | isn’t it? Get my wire?”<|quote|>“There haven’t been any wires.”</|quote|>“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he | unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”<|quote|>“There haven’t been any wires.”</|quote|>“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him | that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”<|quote|>“There haven’t been any wires.”</|quote|>“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I | by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”<|quote|>“There haven’t been any wires.”</|quote|>“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry | answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”<|quote|>“There haven’t been any wires.”</|quote|>“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room | there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”<|quote|>“There haven’t been any wires.”</|quote|>“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of | set the key for the newspaper reports next morning. Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”<|quote|>“There haven’t been any wires.”</|quote|>“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a | him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”<|quote|>“There haven’t been any wires.”</|quote|>“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. | The Great Gatsby |
he said rapidly. | No speaker | wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,”<|quote|>he said rapidly.</|quote|>“They picked him up when | wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,”<|quote|>he said rapidly.</|quote|>“They picked him up when he handed the bonds over | I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,”<|quote|>he said rapidly.</|quote|>“They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. | I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,”<|quote|>he said rapidly.</|quote|>“They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in | of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,”<|quote|>he said rapidly.</|quote|>“They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I | for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,”<|quote|>he said rapidly.</|quote|>“They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening | Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,”<|quote|>he said rapidly.</|quote|>“They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I | saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,”<|quote|>he said rapidly.</|quote|>“They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his | The Great Gatsby |
“Hello!” | Nick | tell in these hick towns—”<|quote|>“Hello!”</|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this | that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—”<|quote|>“Hello!”</|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s | any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—”<|quote|>“Hello!”</|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed | Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—”<|quote|>“Hello!”</|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. | man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—”<|quote|>“Hello!”</|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know | somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—”<|quote|>“Hello!”</|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he | didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—”<|quote|>“Hello!”</|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because | to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—”<|quote|>“Hello!”</|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before | The Great Gatsby |
I interrupted breathlessly. | No speaker | in these hick towns—” “Hello!”<|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly.</|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. | hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!”<|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly.</|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was | wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!”<|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly.</|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz | Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!”<|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly.</|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked | did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!”<|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly.</|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach | for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!”<|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly.</|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t | say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!”<|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly.</|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up | true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!”<|quote|>I interrupted breathlessly.</|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the | The Great Gatsby |
“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” | Nick | towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly.<|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”</|quote|>There was a long silence | can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly.<|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”</|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of | in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly.<|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”</|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said | was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly.<|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”</|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the | us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly.<|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”</|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about | got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly.<|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”</|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is | She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly.<|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”</|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain | for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly.<|quote|>“Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”</|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he | The Great Gatsby |
There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. | No speaker | Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”<|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.</|quote|>“I saw it in the | interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”<|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.</|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It | up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”<|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.</|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like | at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”<|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.</|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were | as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”<|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.</|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him | this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”<|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.</|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed | it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its simplest form. And it rested there. But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”<|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.</|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say | lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”<|quote|>There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.</|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He | The Great Gatsby |
“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” | Henry C. Gatz | spilled from his trembling hand.<|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”</|quote|>he said. “It was all | and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.<|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”</|quote|>he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I | beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.<|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”</|quote|>he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t | was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.<|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”</|quote|>he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told | giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.<|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”</|quote|>he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took | of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.<|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”</|quote|>he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. | was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.<|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”</|quote|>he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” | morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.<|quote|>“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”</|quote|>he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of | The Great Gatsby |
he said. | No speaker | it in the Chicago newspaper,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“It was all in the | his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right | off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. | very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who | before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his | can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t | personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t | out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain | The Great Gatsby |
“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” | Henry C. Gatz | the Chicago newspaper,” he said.<|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”</|quote|>“I didn’t know how to | hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said.<|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”</|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing | coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said.<|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”</|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. | and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said.<|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”</|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. | d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said.<|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”</|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been | it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said.<|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”</|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing | to which everyone has some vague right at the end. I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said.<|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”</|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a | I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said.<|quote|>“It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”</|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do | The Great Gatsby |
“I didn’t know how to reach you.” | Nick | newspaper. I started right away.”<|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.”</|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved | was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”<|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.”</|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It | him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”<|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.”</|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took | warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”<|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.”</|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, | hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”<|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.”</|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know | as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”<|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.”</|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a | called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”<|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.”</|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the | York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”<|quote|>“I didn’t know how to reach you.”</|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” | The Great Gatsby |
His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. | No speaker | know how to reach you.”<|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.</|quote|>“It was a madman,” he | started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.”<|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.</|quote|>“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been | sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.”<|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.</|quote|>“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and | with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.”<|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.</|quote|>“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes | here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.”<|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.</|quote|>“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” | all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.”<|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.</|quote|>“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The | we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.”<|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.</|quote|>“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on | as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.”<|quote|>His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.</|quote|>“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll | The Great Gatsby |
“It was a madman,” | Henry C. Gatz | moved ceaselessly about the room.<|quote|>“It was a madman,”</|quote|>he said. “He must have | you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.<|quote|>“It was a madman,”</|quote|>he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like | But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.<|quote|>“It was a madman,”</|quote|>he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some | umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.<|quote|>“It was a madman,”</|quote|>he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual | a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.<|quote|>“It was a madman,”</|quote|>he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought | am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.<|quote|>“It was a madman,”</|quote|>he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. | But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.<|quote|>“It was a madman,”</|quote|>he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said | “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.<|quote|>“It was a madman,”</|quote|>he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address | The Great Gatsby |
he said. | No speaker | room. “It was a madman,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“He must have been mad.” | nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” | and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys | he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He | the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might | some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, | had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll | brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the | The Great Gatsby |
“He must have been mad.” | Henry C. Gatz | was a madman,” he said.<|quote|>“He must have been mad.”</|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” | ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said.<|quote|>“He must have been mad.”</|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t | glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said.<|quote|>“He must have been mad.”</|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the | to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said.<|quote|>“He must have been mad.”</|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where | end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said.<|quote|>“He must have been mad.”</|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body | important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said.<|quote|>“He must have been mad.”</|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I | away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said.<|quote|>“He must have been mad.”</|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when | this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said.<|quote|>“He must have been mad.”</|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved | The Great Gatsby |
“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” | Nick | “He must have been mad.”<|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”</|quote|>I urged him. “I don’t | was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”<|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”</|quote|>I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right | his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”<|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”</|quote|>I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into | his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”<|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”</|quote|>I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the | by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”<|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”</|quote|>I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. | mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”<|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”</|quote|>I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d | taken baggage with them. “Left no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”<|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”</|quote|>I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I | a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”<|quote|>“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”</|quote|>I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the | The Great Gatsby |
I urged him. | No speaker | “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”<|quote|>I urged him.</|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m | “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”<|quote|>I urged him.</|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” | it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”<|quote|>I urged him.</|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when | I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”<|quote|>I urged him.</|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly | a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”<|quote|>I urged him.</|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked | now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”<|quote|>I urged him.</|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, | no address?” “No.” “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”<|quote|>I urged him.</|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” | and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?”<|quote|>I urged him.</|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the | The Great Gatsby |
“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” | Henry C. Gatz | some coffee?” I urged him.<|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”</|quote|>“Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right | been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.<|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”</|quote|>“Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got | Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.<|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”</|quote|>“Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly | in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.<|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”</|quote|>“Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for | as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.<|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”</|quote|>“Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his | is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.<|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”</|quote|>“Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m | “Say when they’d be back?” “No.” “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.<|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”</|quote|>“Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to | when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.<|quote|>“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”</|quote|>“Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” | The Great Gatsby |
“Carraway.” | Nick | I’m all right now, Mr.—”<|quote|>“Carraway.”</|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. | him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”<|quote|>“Carraway.”</|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” | Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”<|quote|>“Carraway.”</|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. | point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”<|quote|>“Carraway.”</|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the | was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”<|quote|>“Carraway.”</|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position | me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”<|quote|>“Carraway.”</|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not | they are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”<|quote|>“Carraway.”</|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide | terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—”<|quote|>“Carraway.”</|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on | The Great Gatsby |
“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” | Henry C. Gatz | all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.”<|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”</|quote|>I took him into the | “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.”<|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”</|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, | newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.”<|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”</|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and | of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.”<|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”</|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the | on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.”<|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”</|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, | know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.”<|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”</|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone | are? How I could reach them?” “I don’t know. Can’t say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.”<|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”</|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young | broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.”<|quote|>“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”</|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man | The Great Gatsby |
I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. | No speaker | Where have they got Jimmy?”<|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.</|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d | “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”<|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.</|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is | reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”<|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.</|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my | made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”<|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.</|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man | Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”<|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.</|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been | I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”<|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.</|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I | say.” I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone. “Will you ring again?” “I’ve rung three times.” “It’s very important.” “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”<|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.</|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third | I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?”<|quote|>I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.</|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, | The Great Gatsby |
“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” | Nick | been deferred until he came.<|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”</|quote|>“Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. | him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.<|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”</|quote|>“Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might | the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.<|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”</|quote|>“Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had | and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.<|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”</|quote|>“Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build | to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.<|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”</|quote|>“Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were | interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.<|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”</|quote|>“Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt | me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.<|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”</|quote|>“Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t | got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.<|quote|>“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”</|quote|>“Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York | The Great Gatsby |
“Gatz is my name.” | Henry C. Gatz | what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”<|quote|>“Gatz is my name.”</|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you | he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”<|quote|>“Gatz is my name.”</|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the | from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”<|quote|>“Gatz is my name.”</|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before | flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”<|quote|>“Gatz is my name.”</|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s | ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”<|quote|>“Gatz is my name.”</|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The | Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”<|quote|>“Gatz is my name.”</|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for | go through this alone.” Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”<|quote|>“Gatz is my name.”</|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a | funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—”<|quote|>“Gatz is my name.”</|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at | The Great Gatsby |
“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” | Nick | Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.”<|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”</|quote|>He shook his head. “Jimmy | know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.”<|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”</|quote|>He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down | rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.”<|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”</|quote|>He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had | leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.”<|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”</|quote|>He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to | “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.”<|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”</|quote|>He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish | a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.”<|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”</|quote|>He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what | Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.”<|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”</|quote|>He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. | father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.”<|quote|>“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”</|quote|>He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any | The Great Gatsby |
He shook his head. | No speaker | to take the body West.”<|quote|>He shook his head.</|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better | I thought you might want to take the body West.”<|quote|>He shook his head.</|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up | helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”<|quote|>He shook his head.</|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain | no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”<|quote|>He shook his head.</|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the | you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”<|quote|>He shook his head.</|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d | an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”<|quote|>He shook his head.</|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that | upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”<|quote|>He shook his head.</|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than | letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”<|quote|>He shook his head.</|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to | The Great Gatsby |
“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” | Henry C. Gatz | West.” He shook his head.<|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”</|quote|>“We were close friends.” “He | want to take the body West.” He shook his head.<|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”</|quote|>“We were close friends.” “He had a big future before | bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head.<|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”</|quote|>“We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James | quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head.<|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”</|quote|>“We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he | I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head.<|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”</|quote|>“We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made | a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head.<|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”</|quote|>“We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and | the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head.<|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”</|quote|>“We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I | hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head.<|quote|>“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”</|quote|>“We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll | The Great Gatsby |
“We were close friends.” | Nick | friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”<|quote|>“We were close friends.”</|quote|>“He had a big future | the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”<|quote|>“We were close friends.”</|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He | know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”<|quote|>“We were close friends.”</|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of | and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”<|quote|>“We were close friends.”</|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. | took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”<|quote|>“We were close friends.”</|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course | arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”<|quote|>“We were close friends.”</|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known | a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”<|quote|>“We were close friends.”</|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out | They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”<|quote|>“We were close friends.”</|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. | The Great Gatsby |
“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” | Henry C. Gatz | Mr.—?” “We were close friends.”<|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”</|quote|>He touched his head impressively, | a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.”<|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”</|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d | Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.”<|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”</|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and | opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.”<|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”</|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend | drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.”<|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”</|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” | in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.”<|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”</|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to | violence, staring down from the wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.”<|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”</|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he | before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.”<|quote|>“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”</|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send | The Great Gatsby |
He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. | No speaker | lot of brain power here.”<|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.</|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d | man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”<|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.</|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. | liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”<|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.</|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an | while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”<|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.</|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to | when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”<|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.</|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter | solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”<|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.</|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that | and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”<|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.</|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use | coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”<|quote|>He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.</|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best | The Great Gatsby |
“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” | Henry C. Gatz | head impressively, and I nodded.<|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”</|quote|>“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. | power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.<|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”</|quote|>“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered | to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.<|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”</|quote|>“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I | I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.<|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”</|quote|>“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. | went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.<|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”</|quote|>“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, | up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.<|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”</|quote|>“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to | next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.<|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”</|quote|>“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work | the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.<|quote|>“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”</|quote|>“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out | The Great Gatsby |
“That’s true,” | Nick | helped build up the country.”<|quote|>“That’s true,”</|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled | James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”<|quote|>“That’s true,”</|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying | before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”<|quote|>“That’s true,”</|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” | name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”<|quote|>“That’s true,”</|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s | eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”<|quote|>“That’s true,”</|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a | and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”<|quote|>“That’s true,”</|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone | was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”<|quote|>“That’s true,”</|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a | didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”<|quote|>“That’s true,”</|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” | The Great Gatsby |
I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. | No speaker | up the country.” “That’s true,”<|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.</|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,” I | Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,”<|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.</|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. | you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,”<|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.</|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. | Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,”<|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.</|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course | isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,”<|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.</|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. | from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,”<|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.</|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” | there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,”<|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.</|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. | the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,”<|quote|>I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.</|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. | The Great Gatsby |
“This is Mr. Carraway,” | Nick | he would give his name.<|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</|quote|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded | know who I was before he would give his name.<|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</|quote|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I | helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</|quote|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to | “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</|quote|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” | opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</|quote|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d | I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</|quote|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of | solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</|quote|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest | have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.<|quote|>“This is Mr. Carraway,”</|quote|>I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of | The Great Gatsby |
I said. | No speaker | name. “This is Mr. Carraway,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This | before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved | country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The | future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll | into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too | to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was | me against them all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so | they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized | The Great Gatsby |
He sounded relieved. | No speaker | Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!”<|quote|>He sounded relieved.</|quote|>“This is Klipspringer.” I was | give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!”<|quote|>He sounded relieved.</|quote|>“This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed | I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!”<|quote|>He sounded relieved.</|quote|>“This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. | you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!”<|quote|>He sounded relieved.</|quote|>“This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I | his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!”<|quote|>He sounded relieved.</|quote|>“This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have | he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!”<|quote|>He sounded relieved.</|quote|>“This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone | all. Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!”<|quote|>He sounded relieved.</|quote|>“This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want | drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!”<|quote|>He sounded relieved.</|quote|>“This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment | The Great Gatsby |
I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. | No speaker | sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”<|quote|>I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.</|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. | Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”<|quote|>I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.</|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the | the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”<|quote|>I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.</|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, | young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”<|quote|>I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.</|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, | with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”<|quote|>I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.</|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame | of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”<|quote|>I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.</|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name | been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”<|quote|>I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.</|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s | anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.”<|quote|>I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.</|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of | The Great Gatsby |
“The funeral’s tomorrow,” | Nick | They were hard to find.<|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,”</|quote|>I said. “Three o’clock, here | up a few people myself. They were hard to find.<|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,”</|quote|>I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish | said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.<|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,”</|quote|>I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. | “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.<|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,”</|quote|>I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort | name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.<|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,”</|quote|>I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman | room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.<|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,”</|quote|>I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” | I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.<|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,”</|quote|>I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get | he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.<|quote|>“The funeral’s tomorrow,”</|quote|>I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and | The Great Gatsby |
I said. | No speaker | to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the | people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell | sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I | said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic | I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom | a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said | up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up | awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,”<|quote|>I said.</|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She | The Great Gatsby |
“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” | Nick | “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said.<|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”</|quote|>“Oh, I will,” he broke | They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said.<|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”</|quote|>“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m | “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said.<|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”</|quote|>“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” | He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said.<|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”</|quote|>“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an | you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said.<|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”</|quote|>“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my | he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said.<|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”</|quote|>“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s | some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said.<|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”</|quote|>“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to | I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said.<|quote|>“Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”</|quote|>“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for | The Great Gatsby |
he broke out hastily. | No speaker | be interested.” “Oh, I will,”<|quote|>he broke out hastily.</|quote|>“Of course I’m not likely | wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,”<|quote|>he broke out hastily.</|quote|>“Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if | I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,”<|quote|>he broke out hastily.</|quote|>“Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the | instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,”<|quote|>he broke out hastily.</|quote|>“Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard | down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,”<|quote|>he broke out hastily.</|quote|>“Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those | want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,”<|quote|>he broke out hastily.</|quote|>“Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me | I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,”<|quote|>he broke out hastily.</|quote|>“Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any | coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,”<|quote|>he broke out hastily.</|quote|>“Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave | The Great Gatsby |
His tone made me suspicious. | No speaker | anybody, but if I do.”<|quote|>His tone made me suspicious.</|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there | I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.”<|quote|>His tone made me suspicious.</|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. | been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.”<|quote|>His tone made me suspicious.</|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me | was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.”<|quote|>His tone made me suspicious.</|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I | my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.”<|quote|>His tone made me suspicious.</|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should | got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.”<|quote|>His tone made me suspicious.</|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you | know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.”<|quote|>His tone made me suspicious.</|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine | leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.”<|quote|>His tone made me suspicious.</|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized | The Great Gatsby |
“Of course you’ll be there yourself.” | Nick | His tone made me suspicious.<|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”</|quote|>“Well, I’ll certainly try. What | anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious.<|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”</|quote|>“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” | people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious.<|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”</|quote|>“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In | his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious.<|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”</|quote|>“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d | close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious.<|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”</|quote|>“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call | into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious.<|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”</|quote|>“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here | I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out. Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious.<|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”</|quote|>“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck | “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious.<|quote|>“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”</|quote|>“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior | The Great Gatsby |
“Wait a minute,” | Nick | I called up about is—”<|quote|>“Wait a minute,”</|quote|>I interrupted. “How about saying | “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—”<|quote|>“Wait a minute,”</|quote|>I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact | the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—”<|quote|>“Wait a minute,”</|quote|>I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my | was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—”<|quote|>“Wait a minute,”</|quote|>I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, | man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—”<|quote|>“Wait a minute,”</|quote|>I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to | up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—”<|quote|>“Wait a minute,”</|quote|>I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s | Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—”<|quote|>“Wait a minute,”</|quote|>I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean | was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—”<|quote|>“Wait a minute,”</|quote|>I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But | The Great Gatsby |
I interrupted. | No speaker | about is—” “Wait a minute,”<|quote|>I interrupted.</|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?” | try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,”<|quote|>I interrupted.</|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth | wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,”<|quote|>I interrupted.</|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to | for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,”<|quote|>I interrupted.</|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis | had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,”<|quote|>I interrupted.</|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer | steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,”<|quote|>I interrupted.</|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, | then hasty addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,”<|quote|>I interrupted.</|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the | is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,”<|quote|>I interrupted.</|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The | The Great Gatsby |
“How about saying you’ll come?” | Nick | “Wait a minute,” I interrupted.<|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?”</|quote|>“Well, the fact is—the truth | I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted.<|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?”</|quote|>“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that | tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted.<|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?”</|quote|>“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an | seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted.<|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?”</|quote|>“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of | lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted.<|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?”</|quote|>“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to | were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted.<|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?”</|quote|>“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned | addenda beneath: Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. “This is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted.<|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?”</|quote|>“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that | now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted.<|quote|>“How about saying you’ll come?”</|quote|>“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, | The Great Gatsby |
I ejaculated an unrestrained | No speaker | my best to get away.”<|quote|>I ejaculated an unrestrained</|quote|>“Huh!” and he must have | something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.”<|quote|>I ejaculated an unrestrained</|quote|>“Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went | saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.”<|quote|>I ejaculated an unrestrained</|quote|>“Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless | who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.”<|quote|>I ejaculated an unrestrained</|quote|>“Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, | the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.”<|quote|>I ejaculated an unrestrained</|quote|>“Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and | the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.”<|quote|>I ejaculated an unrestrained</|quote|>“Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, | is Slagle speaking …” “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.”<|quote|>I ejaculated an unrestrained</|quote|>“Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship | what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.”<|quote|>I ejaculated an unrestrained</|quote|>“Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent | The Great Gatsby |
“Huh!” | Nick | away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained<|quote|>“Huh!”</|quote|>and he must have heard | do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained<|quote|>“Huh!”</|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on | the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained<|quote|>“Huh!”</|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without | I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained<|quote|>“Huh!”</|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for | down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained<|quote|>“Huh!”</|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently | surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained<|quote|>“Huh!”</|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and | “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained<|quote|>“Huh!”</|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for | coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained<|quote|>“Huh!”</|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. | The Great Gatsby |
and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: | No speaker | I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!”<|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously:</|quote|>“What I called up about | my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!”<|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously:</|quote|>“What I called up about was a pair of shoes | fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!”<|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously:</|quote|>“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear | will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!”<|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously:</|quote|>“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly | stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!”<|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously:</|quote|>“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me | and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!”<|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously:</|quote|>“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first | The name was unfamiliar. “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” “There haven’t been any wires.” “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!”<|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously:</|quote|>“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is | of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!”<|quote|>and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously:</|quote|>“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of | The Great Gatsby |
I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked | No speaker | is care of B. F.—”<|quote|>I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked</|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,” and | helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—”<|quote|>I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked</|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem | went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—”<|quote|>I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked</|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she | I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—”<|quote|>I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked</|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called | the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—”<|quote|>I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked</|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer | him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—”<|quote|>I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked</|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he | You never can tell in these hick towns—” “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—”<|quote|>I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked</|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up | up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—”<|quote|>I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked</|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” | The Great Gatsby |
“The Swastika Holding Company,” | No speaker | an elevator boy, was marked<|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,”</|quote|>and at first there didn’t | open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked<|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,”</|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. | liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked<|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,”</|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone | hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked<|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,”</|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other | they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked<|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,”</|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in | like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked<|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,”</|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high | eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked<|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,”</|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had | eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked<|quote|>“The Swastika Holding Company,”</|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was | The Great Gatsby |
and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted | No speaker | marked “The Swastika Holding Company,”<|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted</|quote|>“hello” several times in vain, | of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,”<|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted</|quote|>“hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind | have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,”<|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted</|quote|>“hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun | After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,”<|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted</|quote|>“hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll | to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,”<|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted</|quote|>“hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in | He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,”<|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted</|quote|>“hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to | excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,”<|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted</|quote|>“hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and | I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,”<|quote|>and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted</|quote|>“hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When | The Great Gatsby |
“hello” | Nick | inside. But when I’d shouted<|quote|>“hello”</|quote|>several times in vain, an | didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted<|quote|>“hello”</|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a | up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted<|quote|>“hello”</|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to | implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted<|quote|>“hello”</|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give | Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted<|quote|>“hello”</|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a | at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted<|quote|>“hello”</|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. | to pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted<|quote|>“hello”</|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought | was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted<|quote|>“hello”</|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed | The Great Gatsby |
several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. | No speaker | But when I’d shouted “hello”<|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.</|quote|>“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. | seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello”<|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.</|quote|>“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The | to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello”<|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.</|quote|>“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, | that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello”<|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.</|quote|>“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down | course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello”<|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.</|quote|>“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he | the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello”<|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.</|quote|>“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in | pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello”<|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.</|quote|>“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for | of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello”<|quote|>several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.</|quote|>“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I | The Great Gatsby |
she said. | No speaker | black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,”<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>“Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” | door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,”<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>“Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this | marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,”<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>“Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” | Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,”<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>“Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young | a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,”<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>“Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major | was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,”<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>“Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” | music-room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,”<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>“Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he | “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,”<|quote|>she said.</|quote|>“Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First | The Great Gatsby |
The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle | No speaker | “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”<|quote|>The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle</|quote|>“The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please | eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”<|quote|>The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle</|quote|>“The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants | first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”<|quote|>The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle</|quote|>“The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it | better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”<|quote|>The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle</|quote|>“The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When | I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”<|quote|>The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle</|quote|>“The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard | “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”<|quote|>The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle</|quote|>“The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his | I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”<|quote|>The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle</|quote|>“The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous | “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”<|quote|>The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle</|quote|>“The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the | The Great Gatsby |
tunelessly, inside. | No speaker | begun to whistle “The Rosary,”<|quote|>tunelessly, inside.</|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway | obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,”<|quote|>tunelessly, inside.</|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I | vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,”<|quote|>tunelessly, inside.</|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he | to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,”<|quote|>tunelessly, inside.</|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in | see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,”<|quote|>tunelessly, inside.</|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to | too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,”<|quote|>tunelessly, inside.</|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d | from his trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,”<|quote|>tunelessly, inside.</|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed | trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,”<|quote|>tunelessly, inside.</|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— | The Great Gatsby |
“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” | Nick | whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.<|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”</|quote|>“I can’t get him back | for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.<|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”</|quote|>“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At | argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.<|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”</|quote|>“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took | Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.<|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”</|quote|>“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She | tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.<|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”</|quote|>“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy | that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.<|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”</|quote|>“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in | trembling hand. “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.<|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”</|quote|>“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for | “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.<|quote|>“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”</|quote|>“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he | The Great Gatsby |
At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called | No speaker | back from Chicago, can I?”<|quote|>At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called</|quote|>“Stella!” from the other side | him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”<|quote|>At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called</|quote|>“Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your | me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”<|quote|>At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called</|quote|>“Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You | the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”<|quote|>At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called</|quote|>“Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer | hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”<|quote|>At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called</|quote|>“Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third | and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”<|quote|>At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called</|quote|>“Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t | I started right away.” “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”<|quote|>At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called</|quote|>“Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a | care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”<|quote|>At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called</|quote|>“Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up | The Great Gatsby |
“Stella!” | Wolfshiem | a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called<|quote|>“Stella!”</|quote|>from the other side of | can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called<|quote|>“Stella!”</|quote|>from the other side of the door. “Leave your name | said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called<|quote|>“Stella!”</|quote|>from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young | “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called<|quote|>“Stella!”</|quote|>from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem | hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called<|quote|>“Stella!”</|quote|>from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street | calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called<|quote|>“Stella!”</|quote|>from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do | to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called<|quote|>“Stella!”</|quote|>from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged | friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called<|quote|>“Stella!”</|quote|>from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. | The Great Gatsby |
from the other side of the door. | No speaker | voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!”<|quote|>from the other side of the door.</|quote|>“Leave your name on the | I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!”<|quote|>from the other side of the door.</|quote|>“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll | “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!”<|quote|>from the other side of the door.</|quote|>“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way | Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!”<|quote|>from the other side of the door.</|quote|>“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out | up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!”<|quote|>from the other side of the door.</|quote|>“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t | up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!”<|quote|>from the other side of the door.</|quote|>“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” | reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!”<|quote|>from the other side of the door.</|quote|>“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong | be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!”<|quote|>from the other side of the door.</|quote|>“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away | The Great Gatsby |
she said quickly. | No speaker | your name on the desk,”<|quote|>she said quickly.</|quote|>“I’ll give it to him | side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,”<|quote|>she said quickly.</|quote|>“I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But | for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,”<|quote|>she said quickly.</|quote|>“I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired | But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,”<|quote|>she said quickly.</|quote|>“I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking | to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,”<|quote|>she said quickly.</|quote|>“I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on | I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,”<|quote|>she said quickly.</|quote|>“I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. | a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,”<|quote|>she said quickly.</|quote|>“I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had | “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,”<|quote|>she said quickly.</|quote|>“I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the | The Great Gatsby |
“But I know he’s there.” | Nick | him when he gets back.”<|quote|>“But I know he’s there.”</|quote|>She took a step toward | quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”<|quote|>“But I know he’s there.”</|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide | that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”<|quote|>“But I know he’s there.”</|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. | out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”<|quote|>“But I know he’s there.”</|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, | However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”<|quote|>“But I know he’s there.”</|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth | anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”<|quote|>“But I know he’s there.”</|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get | some coffee?” I urged him. “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”<|quote|>“But I know he’s there.”</|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the | out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”<|quote|>“But I know he’s there.”</|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were | The Great Gatsby |
She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. | No speaker | “But I know he’s there.”<|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.</|quote|>“You young men think you | him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.”<|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.</|quote|>“You young men think you can force your way in | see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.”<|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.</|quote|>“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment | presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.”<|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.</|quote|>“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A | for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.”<|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.</|quote|>“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made | I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.”<|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.</|quote|>“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was | “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” “Carraway.” “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.”<|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.</|quote|>“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word | must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.”<|quote|>She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.</|quote|>“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two | The Great Gatsby |
she scolded. | No speaker | way in here any time,”<|quote|>she scolded.</|quote|>“We’re getting sickantired of it. | think you can force your way in here any time,”<|quote|>she scolded.</|quote|>“We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in | the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,”<|quote|>she scolded.</|quote|>“We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into | obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,”<|quote|>she scolded.</|quote|>“We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in | morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,”<|quote|>she scolded.</|quote|>“We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I | certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,”<|quote|>she scolded.</|quote|>“We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the | left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,”<|quote|>she scolded.</|quote|>“We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell | night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,”<|quote|>she scolded.</|quote|>“We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get | The Great Gatsby |
I mentioned Gatsby. | No speaker | in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.”<|quote|>I mentioned Gatsby.</|quote|>“Oh-h!” She looked at me | it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.”<|quote|>I mentioned Gatsby.</|quote|>“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What | know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.”<|quote|>I mentioned Gatsby.</|quote|>“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, | Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.”<|quote|>I mentioned Gatsby.</|quote|>“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he | seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.”<|quote|>I mentioned Gatsby.</|quote|>“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was | you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.”<|quote|>I mentioned Gatsby.</|quote|>“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for | the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.”<|quote|>I mentioned Gatsby.</|quote|>“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 | demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.”<|quote|>I mentioned Gatsby.</|quote|>“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is | The Great Gatsby |
She looked at me over again. | No speaker | Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!”<|quote|>She looked at me over again.</|quote|>“Will you just—What was your | he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!”<|quote|>She looked at me over again.</|quote|>“Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a | took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!”<|quote|>She looked at me over again.</|quote|>“Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory | him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!”<|quote|>She looked at me over again.</|quote|>“Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time | any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!”<|quote|>She looked at me over again.</|quote|>“Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use | fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!”<|quote|>She looked at me over again.</|quote|>“Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was | told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away. After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!”<|quote|>She looked at me over again.</|quote|>“Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to | matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!”<|quote|>She looked at me over again.</|quote|>“Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When | The Great Gatsby |
She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. | No speaker | you just—What was your name?”<|quote|>She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.</|quote|>“My memory goes back to | at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?”<|quote|>She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.</|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” | up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?”<|quote|>She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.</|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. | moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?”<|quote|>She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.</|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an | of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?”<|quote|>She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.</|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I | people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?”<|quote|>She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.</|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he | while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?”<|quote|>She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.</|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per | yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?”<|quote|>She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.</|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may | The Great Gatsby |
“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” | Wolfshiem | and offered me a cigar.<|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,”</|quote|>he said. “A young major | time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.<|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,”</|quote|>he said. “A young major just out of the army | over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.<|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,”</|quote|>he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into | me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.<|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,”</|quote|>he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start | at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.<|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,”</|quote|>he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction | heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.<|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,”</|quote|>he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. | around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.<|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,”</|quote|>he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this | F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.<|quote|>“My memory goes back to when first I met him,”</|quote|>he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so | The Great Gatsby |
he said. | No speaker | when first I met him,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“A young major just out | “My memory goes back to when first I met him,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered | In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom | down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I | eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. | up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that | height and splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by | most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The | The Great Gatsby |
“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” | Wolfshiem | I met him,” he said.<|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”</|quote|>“Did you start him in | goes back to when first I met him,” he said.<|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”</|quote|>“Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! | moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said.<|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”</|quote|>“Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could | hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said.<|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”</|quote|>“Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered | in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said.<|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”</|quote|>“Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any | was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said.<|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”</|quote|>“Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of | splendour of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came. “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” “Gatz is my name.” “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” He shook his head. “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said.<|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”</|quote|>“Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list | “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said.<|quote|>“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”</|quote|>“Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” | The Great Gatsby |
“Did you start him in business?” | Nick | food in half an hour.”<|quote|>“Did you start him in business?”</|quote|>I inquired. “Start him! I | than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”<|quote|>“Did you start him in business?”</|quote|>I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised | time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”<|quote|>“Did you start him in business?”</|quote|>I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him | memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”<|quote|>“Did you start him in business?”</|quote|>I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the | and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”<|quote|>“Did you start him in business?”</|quote|>I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I | who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”<|quote|>“Did you start him in business?”</|quote|>I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners | up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”<|quote|>“Did you start him in business?”</|quote|>I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little | elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”<|quote|>“Did you start him in business?”</|quote|>I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now | The Great Gatsby |
I inquired. | No speaker | you start him in business?”<|quote|>I inquired.</|quote|>“Start him! I made him.” | in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?”<|quote|>I inquired.</|quote|>“Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up | he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?”<|quote|>I inquired.</|quote|>“Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join | I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?”<|quote|>I inquired.</|quote|>“Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series | indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?”<|quote|>I inquired.</|quote|>“Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a | at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?”<|quote|>I inquired.</|quote|>“Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty | East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?”<|quote|>I inquired.</|quote|>“Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three | if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?”<|quote|>I inquired.</|quote|>“Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to | The Great Gatsby |
“Start him! I made him.” | Wolfshiem | him in business?” I inquired.<|quote|>“Start him! I made him.”</|quote|>“Oh.” “I raised him up | an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired.<|quote|>“Start him! I made him.”</|quote|>“Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out | into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired.<|quote|>“Start him! I made him.”</|quote|>“Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he | him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired.<|quote|>“Start him! I made him.”</|quote|>“Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s | and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired.<|quote|>“Start him! I made him.”</|quote|>“Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if | on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired.<|quote|>“Start him! I made him.”</|quote|>“Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed | you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired.<|quote|>“Start him! I made him.”</|quote|>“Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from | liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired.<|quote|>“Start him! I made him.”</|quote|>“Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was | The Great Gatsby |
“Oh.” | Nick | “Start him! I made him.”<|quote|>“Oh.”</|quote|>“I raised him up out | him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.”<|quote|>“Oh.”</|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of | Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.”<|quote|>“Oh.”</|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used | major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.”<|quote|>“Oh.”</|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” | young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.”<|quote|>“Oh.”</|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a | liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.”<|quote|>“Oh.”</|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out | boy’s, Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.”<|quote|>“Oh.”</|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, | interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.”<|quote|>“Oh.”</|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but | The Great Gatsby |
“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” | Wolfshiem | him! I made him.” “Oh.”<|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”</|quote|>—he held up two bulbous | in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.”<|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”</|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered | and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.”<|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”</|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” | just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.”<|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”</|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I | men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.”<|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”</|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn | and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.”<|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”</|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of | Mr.—?” “We were close friends.” “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.” He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.”<|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”</|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. | be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.”<|quote|>“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”</|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my | The Great Gatsby |
—he held up two bulbous fingers— | No speaker | thick like that in everything”<|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers—</|quote|>“always together.” I wondered if | to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”<|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers—</|quote|>“always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the | told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”<|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers—</|quote|>“always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in | than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”<|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers—</|quote|>“always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up | for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”<|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers—</|quote|>“always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a | behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”<|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers—</|quote|>“always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when | the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”<|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers—</|quote|>“always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock | quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything”<|quote|>—he held up two bulbous fingers—</|quote|>“always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. | The Great Gatsby |
“always together.” | Wolfshiem | held up two bulbous fingers—<|quote|>“always together.”</|quote|>I wondered if this partnership | like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers—<|quote|>“always together.”</|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series | I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers—<|quote|>“always together.”</|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils | in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers—<|quote|>“always together.”</|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it | me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers—<|quote|>“always together.”</|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when | lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers—<|quote|>“always together.”</|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run | instantly asleep. That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers—<|quote|>“always together.”</|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession | broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers—<|quote|>“always together.”</|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the | The Great Gatsby |
I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. | No speaker | two bulbous fingers— “always together.”<|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.</|quote|>“Now he’s dead,” I said | in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.”<|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.</|quote|>“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were | I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.”<|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.</|quote|>“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. | an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.”<|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.</|quote|>“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it | cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.”<|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.</|quote|>“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that | appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.”<|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.</|quote|>“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. | That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.”<|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.</|quote|>“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside | without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.”<|quote|>I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.</|quote|>“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. | The Great Gatsby |
“Now he’s dead,” | Wolfshiem | World’s Series transaction in 1919.<|quote|>“Now he’s dead,”</|quote|>I said after a moment. | this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.<|quote|>“Now he’s dead,”</|quote|>I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, | and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.<|quote|>“Now he’s dead,”</|quote|>I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do | made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.<|quote|>“Now he’s dead,”</|quote|>I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a | “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.<|quote|>“Now he’s dead,”</|quote|>I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule | in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.<|quote|>“Now he’s dead,”</|quote|>I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he | I was before he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.<|quote|>“Now he’s dead,”</|quote|>I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a | care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.<|quote|>“Now he’s dead,”</|quote|>I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain | The Great Gatsby |
I said after a moment. | No speaker | in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, | included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want | to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up | “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no | just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” | “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in | he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and | a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned | The Great Gatsby |
“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” | Nick | I said after a moment.<|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”</|quote|>“I’d like to come.” “Well, | in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment.<|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”</|quote|>“I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in | off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment.<|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”</|quote|>“I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a | of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment.<|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”</|quote|>“I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean | and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment.<|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”</|quote|>“I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg | The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment.<|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”</|quote|>“I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He | “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment.<|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”</|quote|>“I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four | known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment.<|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”</|quote|>“I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of | The Great Gatsby |
“I’d like to come.” | Wolfshiem | to his funeral this afternoon.”<|quote|>“I’d like to come.”</|quote|>“Well, come then.” The hair | know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”<|quote|>“I’d like to come.”</|quote|>“Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, | like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”<|quote|>“I’d like to come.”</|quote|>“Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I | man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”<|quote|>“I’d like to come.”</|quote|>“Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” | to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”<|quote|>“I’d like to come.”</|quote|>“Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After | inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”<|quote|>“I’d like to come.”</|quote|>“Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put | for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”<|quote|>“I’d like to come.”</|quote|>“Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and | doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”<|quote|>“I’d like to come.”</|quote|>“Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by | The Great Gatsby |
“Well, come then.” | Nick | afternoon.” “I’d like to come.”<|quote|>“Well, come then.”</|quote|>The hair in his nostrils | come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.”<|quote|>“Well, come then.”</|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he | —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.”<|quote|>“Well, come then.”</|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to | told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.”<|quote|>“Well, come then.”</|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that | his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.”<|quote|>“Well, come then.”</|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes | Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.”<|quote|>“Well, come then.”</|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, | promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.”<|quote|>“Well, come then.”</|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from | sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.”<|quote|>“Well, come then.”</|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. | The Great Gatsby |
The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. | No speaker | to come.” “Well, come then.”<|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.</|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t | funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.”<|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.</|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” | two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.”<|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.</|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it | was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.”<|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.</|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you | he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.”<|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.</|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride | to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.”<|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.</|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his | at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.”<|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.</|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we started through the gate into | But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.”<|quote|>The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.</|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was | The Great Gatsby |
“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” | Wolfshiem | his eyes filled with tears.<|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”</|quote|>he said. “There’s nothing to | as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.<|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”</|quote|>he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s | “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.<|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”</|quote|>he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, | and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.<|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”</|quote|>he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I | at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.<|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”</|quote|>he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually | Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.<|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”</|quote|>he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong | I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.<|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”</|quote|>he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the | young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.<|quote|>“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”</|quote|>he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters | The Great Gatsby |
he said. | No speaker | get mixed up in it,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed | “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over | his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck | did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he | eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and | “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look | hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of | Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years | The Great Gatsby |
“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” | Nick | up in it,” he said.<|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”</|quote|>“When a man gets killed | do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.<|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”</|quote|>“When a man gets killed I never like to get | friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.<|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”</|quote|>“When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but | work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.<|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”</|quote|>“When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and | for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.<|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”</|quote|>“When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this | name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.<|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”</|quote|>“When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a | find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.<|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”</|quote|>“When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I looked around. | in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.<|quote|>“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”</|quote|>“When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held | The Great Gatsby |
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