Shandygaff | Page 3

Gissing's Grub Street stories would have thought Stockton rich
indeed with his fifty-dollar salary. But he was one of those estimable
men who have sense enough to give all their money to their wives and
keep none in their trousers. And though his life was arduous and
perhaps dull to outward view, he was a passionate lover of books, and
in his little box at the back of the newspaper office, smoking a corncob
and thumping out his reviews, he was one of the happiest men in New
York. His thirst for books was a positive bulimia; how joyful he was
when he found time to do a little work on his growing sheaf of literary
essays, which he intended to call "Casual Ablutions," after the famous
sign in the British Museum washroom.

It was Mr. Stockton's custom to take a trolley as far as the Brooklyn
bridge, and thence it was a pleasant walk to the office on Park Row.
Generally he left home about ten o'clock, thus avoiding the rush of
traffic in the earlier hours; and loitering a little along the way, as
becomes a man of ideas, his article on poetry would jell in his mind,
and he would be at his desk a little after eleven. There he would work
until one o'clock with the happy concentration of those who enjoy their
tasks. At that time he would go out for a bite of lunch, and would then
be at his desk steadily from two until six. Dinner at home was at seven,
and after that he worked persistently in his little den under the roof
until past midnight.
One morning in spring he left New Utrecht in a mood of perplexity, for
to-day his even routine was in danger of interruption. Halfway across
the bridge Stockton paused in some confusion of spirit to look down on
the shining river and consider his course.
A year or so before this time, in gathering copy for his poetry articles,
he had first come across the name of Finsbury Verne in an English
journal at the head of some exquisite verses. From time to time he
found more of this writer's lyrics in the English magazines, and at
length he had ventured a graceful article of appreciation. It happened
that he was the first in this country to recognize Verne's talent, and to
his great delight he had one day received a very charming letter from
the poet himself, thanking him for his understanding criticism.
Stockton, though a shy and reticent man, had the friendliest nature in
the world, and some underlying spirit of kinship in Verne's letter
prompted him to warm response. Thus began a correspondence which
was a remarkable pleasure to the lonely reviewer, who knew no literary
men, although his life was passed among books. Hardly dreaming that
they would ever meet, he had insisted on a promise that if Verne should
ever visit the States he would make New Utrecht his headquarters. And
now, on this very morning, there had come a wireless message via
Seagate, saying that Verne was on a ship which would dock that
afternoon.
The dilemma may seem a trifling one, but to Stockton's sensitive nature

it was gross indeed. He and his wife knew that they could offer but
little to make the poet's visit charming. New Utrecht, on the way to
Coney Island, is not a likely perching ground for poets; the house was
small, shabby, and the spare room had long ago been made into a
workshop for the two boys, where they built steam engines and pasted
rotogravure pictures from the Sunday editions on the walls. The servant
was an enormous coloured mammy, with a heart of ruddy gold, but in
appearance she was pure Dahomey. The bathroom plumbing was out of
order, the drawing-room rug was fifteen years old, even the little lawn
in front of the house needed trimming, and the gardener would not be
round for several days. And Verne had given them only a few hours'
notice. How like a poet!
In his letters Stockton had innocently boasted of the pleasant time they
would have when the writer should come to visit. He had spoken of
evenings beside the fire when they would talk for hours of the things
that interest literary men. What would Verne think when he found the
hearth only a gas log, and one that had a peculiarly offensive odour?
This sickly sweetish smell had become in years of intimacy very dear
to Stockton, but he could hardly expect a poet who lived in Well Walk,
Hampstead (O Shades of Keats!), and wrote letters from a London
literary club, to understand that sort of thing. Why, the man was a
grandson of Jules Verne, and probably had been accustomed