“Dicky” Davis we always called him behind his back.  And such he looks.  A man of “strapping” physique, younger in a general effect than probably he is; immense chest and shoulders, great “meaty” back; constructed like (we picture) those gladiators Borrow lyrically acclaims the “noble bruisers of old England”; complexion, (to employ perhaps an excessive stylistic restraint) not pale.  A heavy stick.  A fondness for stocks.  Very becoming.  A vitality with an aversion, apparently, to wearing an overcoat in the coldest weather; deeming this probably an appurtenance of the invalid.  Funny style of trowsers as if made for legs about a foot longer.  In the reign of “high waters”!

We had picked up the notion that Mr. Davis was a snobbish person; we found him a very friendly man; gentle, describes it, in manner.  Very respectful to clerks.  “One of the other gentlemen here ordered another book for me,” he mentions.  But more.  A sort of camaraderie.  Says, one day, that he just stepped in to dodge some people he saw coming.  Inquires, “Well, what’s going on in the book world?” Buys travel books, Africa and such.  Buys a quart of ink at a clip.  He conveyed to us further, unconsciously, perhaps, a subtle impression that he was, in sympathy with us, on our side, so to say; in any difficulty, that would be, that might arise; with “the boys,” in a manner of speaking.  Veteran globe trotter and soldier of fortune on the earth’s surface, Mr. Davis suffered a considerable shock to discover in tete-a-tete that we had never been in London. London?  Such a human vegetable, we saw, was hardly credible.

“Charge,” he said, “to James Huneker.”  He pronounced his name in a very eccentric fashion, the first syllable like that in “hunter.”  In our commerce with the world we have, with this rather important exception, invariably heard this “u” as in “humid.”  A substantial figure, very erect in carriage, supporting his portliness with that physical pride of portly men, moving with the dignity of bulk; a physiognomy of Rodinesque modelling.  His cane a trim touch to the ensemble.  Decidedly affable in manner to us.  “Very nice man,” comments our hasty note.  “One of our young gentlemen here, black eyes, black hair.”—­describes with surprising memory of exact observation a fellow-serf—­“was to get a book for me a couple of months ago.”  Bought the Muther monograph on Goya.  Referred humorously to his new book—­one on music.  Said, “Many people won’t believe that one can be equally good, or perhaps bad, at many things.”  Spoke of Arnold Bennett; said he was “a hard-working journalist as well as a novel writer.”  Seemed to possess the greater respect, great esteem, for the character of journalist.  We felt a reminiscence of that solid practicality of sentiment of another heavy man.  “Nobody but a blockhead,” said Dr. Johnson, “ever wrote except for money.”

Mentioned the novel then just out, “Predestined.”  “He [the author] is one of our [Sun] men, you know.”  Fraternal pride and affection in inflection, though he said he did not know Mr. Whitman.  “Thank you very much indeed,” he said at leaving.