Palmer chuckled. The winning of the Essex had been one of the never-to-be-forgotten incidents of his life. "Gad, Morton," he cried, "we hit it that time, didn't we? I can see the mare coming under the wire now. Traveling! I'll bet she was traveling! By rights I ought to make the check over to her. She deserves it, if any one ever did. Well, there's nothing very exciting in that mail outside of the check, is there? Nothing immediate, anyway."
Morton smiled faintly. The last three words embodied Palmer's whole philosophy of enjoying life to the best advantage. To live calmly, without haste; to know what was coming in time to enjoy it in anticipation; to be able to put off unpleasant tasks until the latest possible moment—that was Palmer's creed. Some men, nervous and high strung, when the final moment of life itself has to be faced, pray for a sudden death. To Palmer, that would have appeared highly undesirable. Rather, he would infinitely have preferred to have the whole matter indefinitely postponed. So the secretary smiled.
"No," he said, "nothing really immediate, except Mr. Gordon's note. Shall I read it?"
"If you please," answered Palmer indolently, and the secretary read in his even, pleasant voice,
"My Dear Harry:
"Do you recall that you were going to put in a day's shooting with me this fall? I write to tell you that the ducks are just on their flight. I killed over forty in two hours' shooting one day last week, over half of them redheads. Can't you meet me at my office at three to-morrow, and run out for the night?
"Your sincere friend,
"Richard Gordon."
Palmer set down his cup of coffee untasted. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "that's really very decent of Gordon. I didn't know the ducks were flying like that. Yes, Morton, telephone him I'll go with pleasure. And, Morton, get Smith to pack my shooting things, and look over my gun, and put in about two hundred shells, number six shot. Yes, by gad, I'll go."
Deep down in his heart, although he would not have admitted it, and indeed was perhaps hardly aware of it, Palmer had an immense admiration for Gordon, doubtless based on the fact that Gordon did those things best which Palmer himself would most have liked to do well. Palmer's game of bridge was mediocre. Gordon's was masterly. Palmer played a passable game of golf, sometimes brilliant, always dangerously erratic. Gordon's steadiness had won him a rating among the first dozen on the state handicap list. Palmer could always bring home a fair bag of ducks, shooting being perhaps his greatest enthusiasm, but Gordon's clean right and left kills were little short of wonderful in their precision. Of course, as regarded popularity, Palmer had by far the greater number of hangers-on, retainers, satellites,—friends, he chose to call them—for when a genuine multimillionaire turns out to be a lavish spender as well, the combination furnishes unusual opportunities to those wise in their generation, and yet somehow the men whose friendship Palmer would most have liked, while always civil to him, never seemed to treat him in just the same way they did Gordon.