Of American
cocktails he had a fair working knowledge, and he appreciated
ragtime. But of the other great American institutions he was
completely ignorant.
He was on his way now to see Gates. Gates was a comparatively
recent addition to his list of friends, a New York newspaperman
who had come to England a few months before to act as his paper's
London correspondent. He was generally to be found at the Pen and
Ink Club, an institution affiliated with the New York Players, of
which he was a member.
Gates was in. He had just finished lunch.
'What's the trouble, Bill?' he inquired, when he had deposited his
lordship in a corner of the reading-room, which he had selected
because silence was compulsory there, thus rendering it possible
for two men to hear each other speak. 'What brings you charging in
here looking like the Soul's Awakening?'
'I've had an idea, old man.'
'Proceed. Continue.'
'Oh! Well, you remember what you were saying about America?'
'What was I saying about America?'
'The other day, don't you remember? What a lot of money there was
to be made there and so forth.'
'Well?'
'I'm going there.'
'To America?'
'Yes.'
'To make money?'
'Rather.'
Gates nodded--sadly, it seemed to Bill. He was rather a melancholy
young man, with a long face not unlike a pessimistic horse.
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