But what was more interesting to me than his success in grasping my theory of “special” writing was his own character, as it was revealed to me from day to day in intimate working contact with him under these conditions.  Here, as I soon learned, and was glad to learn, 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 he is starting out to do and the fact that life will give him slaps and to spare before he is many years older, he needs to be encouraged.  I was like that myself not so long ago.  And besides, if I do not encourage this type of work financially (which is the best way of all), who will?”