I
A raw wind from the sea swept against the mammoth building of the
_New York Monthly Journal_. The editor of that classic publication
stretched his arms lazily, then crossed to the rattling window and
looked at Broadway, far beneath. A few belated flakes of snow mingled
with the dust that eddied about in little whirlpools of wind. Like
gnomes, the people hurried on in an endless diverging torrent of
humanity, slouch-hats of soldiers adding a strangely Western effect to
the usual bizarre scene.
The telephone rang, and the editor, Mr. E. H. Townsend, left the window
to answer it.
"Yes?" he said. "Mr. Craighouse? Send him right in."
He took from a drawer a box of notoriously expensive cigars, and laid
it on his desk. The reasonings of Dr. Watson himself could hardly have
failed to deduce that the visitor was of some importance.
A moment later a young man, in the uniform of a United States officer,
knocked, and, in response to the invitation, entered the inner temple.
Mr. Townsend offered him the arm-chair, and reached for the cigars.
"You look well in uniform," he said, after appropriate comments on the
April weather had been made by both.
"Thanks. I received your note this morning asking me to call."
"Ah yes. By-the-by, you are sailing soon, I believe?"
"Any time, now; naturally, we don't know to a day."
"What branch of the Service are you with?"
"The Engineers."
The editor thrust his hands into his pockets. "That is odd," he said.
"Did you know anything about engineering?"
"A little." The young man's voice was abrupt, but not unmusical. His
brain had always been alert, and army training was making his voice so.
"I was a science grad. at Harvard."
The editor gazed out of the window again. "You are a remarkable
combination, Mr. Craighouse," he said. "There is nothing more stifling
to the artistic nature than a purely scientific training; in fact, the
influence of this journal has always been used against absolutely
technical schools. Almost the first requisite of any artist is a keen
appreciation of the intangible; science deals only with things that can
be proved. I often nurse along a young writer if he is incoherent
because, as frequently happens, his temperament is greater than his
technique. Scientists always marshal their facts well, but they never
soar to the heights."
The editor tapped the window gently, the young officer gazing
quizzically at him the while. They were a strangely contrasted pair,
the editor in the autumn of life, with the calm voice and bearing of
one who has fastened routine to art, and become jaded in the process;
the young man keenly alert, with eyes that never lost their
restlessness, and thin, satirical lips that mocked the high forehead of
a philosopher.
"I am greatly interested in your writing," said the editor, after
rather a lengthy pause.