Over the way then to the Herald Building, its owls’ eyes glowing in the night, its presses thundering, the elevated thundering beside it.  Here was a business manager whom he knew.  Then to the Herald Square Theater on the opposite side of the street, ablaze with a small electric sign—­among the newest in the city.  In this, as in the business office of the Herald was another manager, and he knew them all.  Thence to the Marlborough bar and lobby at Thirty-sixth, the manager’s office of the Knickerbocker Theater at Thirty-eighth, stopping at the bar and lobby of the Normandie, where some blazing professional beauty of the stage waylaid him and exchanged theatrical witticisms with him—­and what else?  Thence to the manager’s office of the Casino at Thirty-ninth, some bar which was across the street, another in Thirty-ninth west of Broadway, an Italian restaurant on the ground floor of the Metropolitan at Fortieth and Broadway, and at last but by no means least and by such slow stages to the very door of the then Mecca of Meccas of all theater- and sportdom, the sanctum sanctorum of all those sportively au fait, “wise,” the “real thing”—­the Hotel Metropole at Broadway and Forty-second Street, the then extreme northern limit of the white-light district.  And what a realm!  Rounders and what not were here ensconced at round tables, their backs against the leather-cushioned wall seats, the adjoining windows open to all Broadway and the then all but somber Forty-second Street.

It was wonderful, the loud clothes, the bright straw hats, the canes, the diamonds, the “hot” socks, the air of security and well-being, so easily assumed by those who gain an all too brief hour in this pretty, petty world of make-believe and pleasure and pseudo-fame.  Among them my dearest brother was at his best.  It was “Paul” here and “Paul” there—­“Why, hello, Dresser, you’re just in time!  Come on in.  What’ll you have?  Let me tell you something, Paul, a good one—­“.  More drinks, cigars, tales—­magnificent tales of successes made, “great shows” given, fights, deaths, marvelous winnings at cards, trickeries in racing, prize-fighting; the “dogs” that some people were, the magnificent, magnanimous “God’s own salt” that others were.  The oaths, stories of women, what low, vice-besmeared, crime-soaked ghoulas certain reigning beauties of the town or stage were—­and so on and so on ad infinitum.

But his story?—­ah, yes.  I had all but forgotten.  It was told in every place, not once but seven, eight, nine, ten times.  We did not eat until we reached the Metropole, and it was ten-thirty when we reached it!  The handshakes, the road stories—­“This is my brother Theodore.  He writes; he’s a newspaper man.”  The roars of laughter, the drinks!  “Ah, my boy, that’s good, but let me tell you one—­one that I heard out in Louisville the other day.”  A seedy, shabby ne’er-do-well of a song-writer maybe stopping the successful author in the midst of a tale to borrow a dollar.  Another actor, shabby and distrait, reciting the sad tale of a year’s misfortunes.  Everywhere my dear brother was called to, slapped on the back, chuckled with.  He was successful.  One of his best songs was the rage, he had an interest in a going musical concern, he could confer benefits, favors.