knows Tarkington so well that if the latter were unhappily deleted by some “wilful convulsion of brute nature” I think it undoubtable that his biographer could reconstruct a very plausible automaton, and would know just what ingredients to blend.  A dash of Miss Austen, Joseph Conrad, Henry James and Daudet; flavored perhaps with coal smoke from Indianapolis, spindrift from the Maine coast and a few twanging chords from the Princeton Glee Club.

Fourth Memo—­Mr. Holliday is critic as well as essayist.

CHAPTER VI

(OUR HERO FINDS A STEADY JOB)

It was the summer of 1917 when Owd Bob came back to New York.  Just at that juncture I happened to hear that a certain publisher needed an editorial man, and when Bob and I were at Browne’s discussing the fate of “Walking-Stick Papers” over a jug of shandygaff, I told him this news.  He hurried to the office in question through a drenching rain-gust, and has been there ever since.  The publisher performed an act of perspicuity rare indeed.  He not only accepted the manuscript, but its author as well.

So that is the story of “Walking-Stick Papers,” and it does not cause me to droop if you say I talk of matters of not such great moment.  What a joy it would have been if some friend had jotted down memoranda of this sort concerning some of Elia’s doings.  The book is a garner of some of the most racy, vigorous and genuinely flavored essays that this country has produced for some time.  Dear to me, every one of them, as clean-cut blazes by a sincere workman along a trail full of perplexity and struggle, as Grub Street always will be for the man who dips an honest pen that will not stoop to conquer.  And if you should require an accurate portrait of their author I cannot do better than quote what Grote said of Socrates: 

Nothing could be more public, perpetual, and indiscriminate as to persons than his conversation.  But as it was engaging, curious, and instructive to hear, certain persons made it their habit to attend him as companions and listeners.

Owd Bob has long been the object of extreme attachment and high spirits among his intimates.  The earlier books have been followed by “Broome Street Straws” and “Peeps at People,” vividly personal collections that will arouse immediate affection and amusement among his readers.  And of these books will be said (once more in Grote’s words about Socrates): 

    Not only his conversation reached the minds of a much wider circle,
    but he became more abundantly known as a person.

Let us add, then, our final memorandum: 

Fifth Memo—­These essays are the sort of thing you cannot afford to miss.  In them you sit down to warm your wits at the glow of a droll, delightful, unique mind.

So much (at the moment) for Bob Holliday.

THE APPLE THAT NO ONE ATE