Richmond shut him off with:  “Don’t call me John.  A man—­I’ll say man out of courtesy to your outward form—­a man that hasn’t sense enough to lift a bass into a boat is not to be permitted such a familiarity.  Out in a boat with him last summer and caught a big bass,” Richmond explained to the company, “and brought it up to the side of the boat and told Flummers to lift it in, not thinking at the time that he hadn’t sense enough, and he grabbed hold of the line and let the fish get away.  It made me sick, and I had a strong fight with myself to keep from drowning him.”

Flummers tapped his forehead.  “Papa’s nut says, ’Keep your hand out of a fish’s mouth.’  Oh, I don’t want to go fishing with you again.  No fun for me to pull a boat and see a man thrash the water.  Say, did I take anything on you just now?” he suddenly broke off, addressing Henry.

“Yes, but you can have something else.”

“Well, not now.  I’ll hold it in reserve.  In this life it is well to have reserve forces stationed here and there.  Who’s got a car-ticket?  I’ve got to go over on the West Side.  What, are you all broke?  What sort of a poverty-stricken gang have I struck?  Well, I’ve given you as much of my valuable time as I can spare.”

“I suppose you are getting used to this town,” said Mortimer, when Flummers was gone.

“Yes, I am gradually making myself feel at home,” Henry answered.

“You find the weather disagreeable, of course.  We do, I know.”

“I think that Chicago is great in spite of its climate,” said Henry.

“If great at all, it is great in spite of a great many absences,” McGlenn replied; “and in these absences it is mean and contemptible.  To money it gives worship; to the song and dance man it pays admiring attention, but to the writer it gives neglect—­the campaign of silence.”

Richmond put his hand to his month and threw his head back.  “The trouble with you, John”—­

“There’s no trouble with me.”

“Yes, there is, and it is the trouble that comes to all men who form an estimate without having first taken the trouble to think.”

“Gentlemen,” said McGlenn, “I wish to call your attention to that remark.  John Richmond advising people to think before they form their estimates.  John, you are the last man to think before you form an estimate.  Within a minute after you meet a man you are prepared to give your estimate of his character; you’ll give a half-hour’s opinion on a minute’s acquaintance.”

“Some people can’t form an opinion of a man after a year’s acquaintance with him, but I can.  I go by a certain instinct, and when the wrong sort of man rubs up against me I know it.  I don’t need to wait until he has worked me before I find out that he is an impostor.  But, as I was going to say, the trouble with you is that you forget the difference that exists between new and old cities.  A new community worships material things; and if it pays tribute to an idea, it must be that idea which appeals quickest to the eye—­to the commoner senses.  And in this Chicago is no worse than other raw cities.  Fifty years from now “—­