arn, was no
namby-pamby scribbler of the old happy-ending, pretty-nothing school of
literary composition. On the contrary he sounded, for the first time in
my dealings with literary aspirants of every kind, that sure, sane,
penetrating, non-sentimental note so common to the best writers of the
Continent, a note entirely free from mush, bravado and cant. He had a
style as clear as water, as simple as rain; color, romance, humor; and
if a little too much of vanity and self-importance, still one could
forgive him for they were rather well-based. Already used to dealing
with literary and artistic aspirants of different kinds in connection
with the publications of which I had been a part, this one appealed to
me as being the best of them all and a very refreshing change.

One day, only a few weeks after I had met him, seeing that I was alert
for fiction, poetry and short essays or prose phantasies, all
illustrative of the spirit of New York, he brought me a little poem
entitled "Neuvain," which interested me greatly. It was so brief and
forceful and yet so delicate, a double triolet of the old French order,
but with the modernity and flavor of the streets outside, the conduit
cars, hand-organs and dancing children of the pavements. The title
seemed affected, seeing that the English word "Spring" would have done
as well, but it was typical of his mood at the time, his literary
adorations. He was in leash to the French school of which de Maupassant
was the outstanding luminary, only I did not know it at the time.

"Charming," I exclaimed quite enthusiastically. "I like this. Let me see
anything else you have. Do you write short stories?"

For answer he merely stared at me for a little while in the most
examining and arrogant and contemptuous way, as much as to say, "Let me
see if you are really worth my time and trouble in this matter," or
"This sad specimen of alleged mentality is just beginning to suspect
that I might write a short story." Seeing that I merely smiled most
genially in return, he finally deigned to say, "Sure, I write short
stories. What do you think I'm in the writing game for?"

"But you might be interested in novels only or plays, or poetry."

"No," he returned after a pause and with that same air of unrelieved
condescension, "the short story is what I want to specialize in."

"Well," I said to myself, "here is a young cub who certainly has talent,
is crowded with it, and yet owing to the kind of thing