“And fed?” asked Merriwether.
“Oh, indeed!” And he handed over the card as if he were giving Merriwether the keys to the city—but not too gross and material a city either; Merriwether felt almost as if he were being baptized.
“But,” said Merriwether Buck, “I wanted you to feed me!”
“Oh, my dear man!” smiled the minister, “I am doing it, you know. I'm a subscriber—do all my charitable work this way. Saves time. Well, good-by.” And he nodded cheerily.
“But,” said Merriwether Buck, “aren't you interested in me personally? Don't you want to hear my story?”
“Story? Story?” hummed the other. “Indeed, but they'll learn your story there! They have the most excellent system there; card system; cases and case numbers, you know—Stories, bless you! Hundreds and hundreds of stories! Big file cases! You'll be number so-and-so. Really,” he said, with a beaming enthusiasm, “they have a wonderful system. Well, good-by!” There was a touch of finality in his pleasant tone, but Merriwether caught him by the sleeve.
“See here,” he said, “haven't you even got any curiosity about me? Don't you even want to know why I'm hungry? Can't you find time yourself to listen to the tale?”
“Time,” said the reverend gentleman, “time is just what I feel the lack of—feel it sadly, at moments like these, sadly.” He sighed, but it was an optimistic, good-humored sort of sigh. “But I tell you what you do.” He drew forth another card and scribbled on it. “If you want to tell me your story so very badly—(dear me, what remarkable situations the clerical life lets one in for!)—so very badly, take this card to my study about 3.30. You'll find my stenographer there and you can dictate it to her; she'll type it out. Yes, indeed, she'll type it out! Well, good-by!”
And with a bright backward nod he was off.
It was 1.25. There were thirty-five minutes more of life. Merriwether Buck gave the reverend gentleman's cards to a seedy individual who begged from him, with the injunction to go and get himself charitably Bertilloned like a gentleman and stop whining, and turned eastward on Forty-second Street. If you have but thirty-five minutes of life, why not spend them on Fifth Avenue, where sightly things abound?—indeed if you happen to be a homicidal maniac of some hours standing, like Merriwether Buck, Fifth Avenue should be good hunting ground; the very place to mark the fat and greasy citizens of your sacrifice.