The card that had been thrust into my hand had pencilled upon it, "Call
at 4020 Madison Avenue at a quarter before eight this evening." Below,
in copper-plate, was engraved the name, Mr. Esper Indiman.
It was one of those abnormally springlike days that New York sometimes
experiences at the latter end of March, days when negligee shirts and
last summer's straw hats make a sporadic appearance, and bucolic
weather prophets write letters to the afternoon papers abusing the
sun-spots. Really, it was hot, and I was anxious to get out of the dust
and glare; it would be cool at the club, and I intended dining there.
The time was half-past six, the height of the homeward rush hours, and,
as usual, there was a jam of vehicles and pedestrians at the Fourth
Avenue and Twenty-third Street crossing. The subway contractors were
still at work here, and the available street space was choked with
their stagings and temporary footwalks. The inevitable consequent was
congestion; here were two of the principal thoroughfares of the city
crossing each other at right angles, and with hardly enough room, at
the point of intersection, for the traffic of one. The confusion grew
worse as the policemen and signalmen stationed at the crossing
occasionally lost their heads; every now and then a new block would
form, and several minutes would elapse before it could be broken. In
all directions long lines of yellow electric cars stood stalled, the
impatient passengers looking ahead to discover the cause of the
trouble. A familiar enough experience to the modern New-Yorker, yet it
never fails to exasperate him afresh.
The impasse looked hopeless when I reached the scene. A truck loaded
with bales of burlap was on the point of breaking down at the crossing,
and it was a question of how to get it out of the way in the shortest
possible time consistent with the avoidance of the threatened
catastrophe. Meanwhile, the jam of cars and trucks kept piling up until
there was hardly space for a newsboy to worm his way from one curb to
another, and the crowd on the street corners began to grow restive.
They do these things so much better in London.
Now, I detest being in the mob, and I was about to back my way out of
the crowd and seek another route, even if a roundabout one. But just
then the blockade was partially raised, an opening presented itself
immediately in front of me, and I was forced forward willy-nilly.
Arrived at the other side of the street, I drew out of the press as
quickly as possible, and it was then that I discovered Mr. Indiman's
carte de visite tightly clutched in my left hand. Impossible to
conjecture how it had come there, and my own part in the transaction
had been purely involuntary; the muscles of the palm had closed
unconsciously upon the object presented to it, just as does a baby's.
"Mr. Esper Indiman--and who the deuce may he be?"
The club dining-room was full, but Jeckley hailed me and offered me a
seat at his table. I loathe Jeckley, and so I explained politely that I
was waiting for a friend, and should not dine until later.
"Well, then, have a cocktail while I am finishing my coffee," persisted
the beast, and I was obliged to comply.
"I had to feed rather earlier than usual," explained Jeckley.
"Yes," I said, not caring in the least about Mr. Jeckley's hours for
meals.
"You see I'm doing the opening at the Globe to-night, and I must get my
Wall Street copy to the office before the theatre. And what do you
think of that by way of an extra assignment?" He took a card from his
pocket-book and tossed it over. It was another one of Mr. Esper
Indiman's calling-cards, and scrawled in pencil, "Call at 4020 Madison
Avenue at eight o'clock this evening."
Jeckley was lighting his cigar, and so did not observe my start of
surprise. Have I said that Jeckley was a newspaper man? One of the new
school of journalism, a creature who would stick at nothing in the
manufacture of a sensation. The Scare-Head is his god, and he holds
nothing else sacred in heaven and earth. He would sacrifice--but
perhaps I'm unjust to Jeckley; maybe it's only his bounce and flourish
that I detest. Furthermore, I'm a little afraid of him; I don't want to
be written up.
"Esper Indiman," I read aloud. "Don't know him."
"Ever heard the name?" asked Jeckley.