The place was New York. The time, March, 1901. My age was thirty. My cash capital, tightly placed in my pocket, was $7.30, and I had no other external resources. I was a rover and out of a job.
Since August of the year before I had been loafing. My last position, seven months before, was that of a reporter for the New Orleans Times-Democrat. My last newspaper assignment was the great Galveston cyclonic hurricane in which 15,000 lives were lost and $100,000,000 in property was destroyed. I covered that catastrophe for the New York Herald and other journals as well as for the New Orleans newspaper. It was a "beat" and I netted a big sum for a few days' hard work, but the money had all been spent for subsistence.
At the corner of Fortieth Street and Broadway I met an old-time racetrack friend, Dave Campbell. His face wore a hardy, healthful hue, but he bore unmistakable evidence of being down on his luck.
"Buy me a drink," he said.
"I've got thirty cents in change and I must have a cigar," I answered, "and you know I like good ones."
"Well, I'll take a beer," he said, "and you can buy yourself a perfecto."
No sooner said than done. The cigar and the drink were forthcoming. We sat down. It was a café with the regulation news-ticker near the lunch counter.
"Do you still bet on the horses?" asked Campbell.
"No, I haven't had a bet down in more than a year," I answered.
"Well, here's a letter I just received from Frank Mead at New Orleans, and it ought to make you some money," he said.