I thought I had J. P. cornered.  It was before I learned that there was no such thing as cornering J. P.

Leaning toward me, and putting a hand on my shoulder, he said: 

“Now, boy, don’t be put out about this.  I do believe, honestly, that you did your best; but you should not make excuses.  When you are wrong, admit it, and try and benefit by my advice.  You will find a very natural explanation of your mistake.  Perhaps the passages Mr. Pollard marked were the ones he did not intend to read to me, or perhaps you took the wrong set of papers; some perfectly natural explanation I am sure.”

That night at dinner, when I was still smarting under the sense of injustice born of my morning’s experience, J. P. gave me an opening which I could not allow to pass unused.

Turning to me during a pause in the conversation, he asked: 

“And what have you been doing this afternoon, Mr. Ireland?”

A happy inspiration flashed across my mind, and I replied: 

“I’ve been making a rough draft of a play, sir.”

“Well, my God!  I didn’t know you wrote plays.”

“Very seldom, at any rate; but I had an idea this morning that I couldn’t resist.”

“What is it to be called?” inquired J. P.

“‘The Importance of being Pollard,’” I answered, whereupon J. P. and everyone else at the table had a good laugh.  They had all been through a breakfast with J. P. when Pollard was away, and could sympathize with my feelings.

Mr. Pulitzer was very sensible of the difficulties which lay in everybody’s path at the times when lack of sleep or a prolonged attack of pain had made him excessively irritable; and when he had recovered from one of these periods of strain, and was conscious of having been rough in his manner, he often took occasion to make amends.

Sometimes he would do this when we were at table, adopting a humorous tone as he said, “I’m afraid so-and-so will never forgive me for the way I treated him this afternoon; but I want to say that he really read me an excellent story and read it very well, and that I am grateful to him.  I was feeling wretchedly ill and had a frightful headache, and if I said anything that hurt his feelings I apologize.”

Once, during my weeks of probation, when J. P. felt that he had carried his test of my good temper beyond reason, he stopped suddenly in our walk, laid a hand on my shoulder, and asked: 

“What do you feel when I am unreasonable with you?  Do you feel angry?  Do you bear malice?”

“Not at all,” I replied.  “I suppose my feeling is very much like that of a nurse for a patient.  I realize that you are suffering and that you are not to be held responsible for what you do at such times.”

“I thank you for that, Mr. Ireland,” he replied.  “You never said anything which pleased me more.  Never forget that I am blind, and that I am in pain most of the time.”