“When Penton was writing The Slaughter House and we were running it serially, his protagonist, Jarl—­it seemed he didn’t know how to dispose of him ... and the book was running on and on interminably....  I wired him ‘for God’s sake kill Jarl.’ ...

“Baxter took my telegram much to heart ... was deeply aggrieved I afterward learned ... the dear boy ... he did ‘kill Jarl’ finally ... and absent-mindedly brought him to life again, later on in his book.”

And Harry Varden laughed excitedly like a boy, and he leaned sideways and smote his half-bent, sharp, skinny knee with his left hand.  I could perceive that that was a grotesque platform gesture of his, when he drove a comic point home.

* * * * *

I was waiting at the station ... where I had shaken hands with Bob Fitzsimmons, and had seen Emma Silverman off....

Penton Baxter was due on the eleven o’clock train from Kansas City.

I surely must be on the road to becoming somebody, with all these famous people taking such an interest in me.  I remembered Emerson’s dictum about waiting in one’s own doorway long enough, and all the world would come by.

Was I to be disappointed?  It did not seem credible that the great man would make a special stop-off on his way to the coast, just to pay me a visit.

One after another the passengers stepped down and walked and rode away.  Then a little, boyish-looking man ... smooth-faced, bright-complexioned, jumped down, wavered toward me, dropping his baggage ... extended his hand ... both hands ... smiling with his eyes, that possessed long lashes like a girl’s.

“Are you Johnnie Gregory?”

“Penton Baxter?” I asked reverently.  He smiled in response and drew my arm through his.

“This is great, this is certainly great,” he remarked, in a high voice, “and I’m more than glad that I stopped off to see you.”

He expanded in the sun of my youthful hero-worship.

“Where’s the best hotel in town?”

“The Bellman House ... but I’ve arranged with the Sig-Kappas to put you up.”

“Are you a fraternity man?”

“No—­a barb.”

“I’d rather go to the hotel you named ... but thank the boys for me.”

I contended with Penton Baxter for the privilege of carrying his two grips.  They were so heavy that they dragged my shoulders down, but, with an effort, I threw my chest out, and walked, straight and proud, beside him.

As we walked he questioned and questioned.  He had the history of Laurel University, the story of my life, out of me, almost, by the time we had covered the ten blocks to the hotel.

“Penton Baxter!” I whispered in a low voice to the proprietor, who, as he stood behind the desk, dipped the pen with a flourish, and shoved the open register toward his distinguished guest.

* * * * *