a number of younger
brothers and sisters partly dependent on Armstrong. He had accordingly
taken the first situation that promised a fair salary, and, having got
started upon the work of teaching, had been unable to let go until it
was too late; had, indeed, got deeper and deeper in, by falling in
love and impulsively marrying at the first opportunity, and finally
setting up for himself at the Pestalozzian Institute. Poor fellow!
Good fellow! _Amico mio, non della fortuna._

My next call was upon Clay, who had rooms in the Babel building in New
York, and was reported to be something of a Bohemian. He received me
in a smoking jacket and slippers. He had grown a full beard which hid
his finely cut features. His black eyes had the old fire, but his
skin was sallower, and I thought that his manner had a touch of
listlessness mingled with irritability and defiance. He was glad to
see me; but inclined to be at first, not precisely distant, yet by
no means confidential. After awhile, however, he thawed out and
became more like the Clay whom I remembered--our college genius, the
brilliant, the admired, in those days of eager hero-worship. I told
him of my visits to Berkeley and Armstrong.

"Berkeley I see now and then in town," said Clay. "It was rather queer
of him to turn parson, but I guess he doesn't let his theology bother
him much. He has a really superior collection of etchings, I am told.
Armstrong I haven't seen for years. I knew he was a pedagogue
somewhere in Connecticut."

"Don't you ever go to the class reunions?" I asked.

"Class reunions? Well, hardly."

"I should think you would; you are so near New Haven."

"How charmingly provincial you are--you Southern chaps! Don't you know
that, to a man who lives in New York, nothing is near? Besides, as to
my classmates at old Yale and all that, I would go round a corner to
avoid meeting most of them."

I expressed myself as duly shocked by this sentiment, and presently I
inquired:

"Well, Clay, how are you getting on, anyway?"

"That's a d---- general question. How do you want me to answer it?"

"Oh, not at all, if you don't like."

"Well, don't get miffed. Suppose I answer, 'Pretty well, I thank you,
sir.' How will that do?"

"Are you writing anything now?"

"I'm always scribbling something or other. At present, I've got the
position of dramatic critic on the 'Daily Boreas,' which is not a very
bad bore, and keeps the pot boiling. And I do more or less