“Perish the thought!” cried Fitzgerald, clasping his knees and rocking gently.  “You know as well as I do, Hewitt, that it’s the game and not the cash.  I’ve found a new love, my boy.”

“Double harness?” with real anxiety.  Hewitt bit his scrubby mustache.  When a special correspondent married that was the end of him.

“There you go again!” warned the recalcitrant.  “If you don’t stop eating that mustache you’ll have stomach trouble that no Scotch whisky will ever cure.  The whole thing is in a nutshell,” a sly humor creeping into his eyes.  “I am tired of writing ephemeral things.  I want to write something that will last.”

“Write your epitaph, Jack,” drawled a deep voice from the reading table.  “That’s the only sure way, and even that is no good if your marble is spongy.”

“Oh, Cathewe, this is not your funeral,” retorted the editor.

“Perhaps not.  All the same, I’ll be chief mourner if Jack takes up novel writing.  Critics don’t like novels, because any one can write an average story; but it takes a genius to turn out first-class magazine copy.  Anyhow, art becomes less and less particular every day.  The only thing that never gains or loses is this London Times.  Someday I’m going to match the Congressional Record and the Times for the heavyweight championship of the world, with seven to one on the Record, to weigh in at the ringside.”

“You’ve been up north, Arthur,” said Fitzgerald.  “What’s your advice?”

“Don’t do it.  You’ve often wondered how and where I lost these two digits.  Up there.”  The Times rattled, and Cathewe became absorbed in the budget.

Arthur Cathewe was a tall, loose-limbed man, forty-two or three, rather handsome, and a bit shy with most folk.  Rarely any one saw him outside the club.  He had few intimates, but to these he was all that friendship means, kindly, tender, loyal, generous, self-effacing.  And Fitzgerald loved him best of all men.  It did not matter that there were periods when they became separated for months at a time.  They would some day turn up together in the same place.  “Why, hello, Arthur!” “Glad to see you, Jack!” and that was all that was necessary.  All the enthusiasm was down deep below.  Cathewe was always in funds; Fitzgerald sometimes; but there was never any lending or borrowing between them.  This will do much toward keeping friendship green.  The elder man was a great hunter; he had been everywhere, north and south, east and west.  He never fooled away his time at pigeons and traps; big game, where the betting was even, where the animal had almost the same chance as the man.  He could be tolerably humorous upon occasions.  The solemn cast to his comely face predestined him for this talent.

“Well, Fitz, what are you going to do?”

“Hewitt, give me a chance.  I’ve been home but a week.  I’m not going to dash to the Pole without having a ripping good time here first.  Will a month do?”