"That's the man."
"I know him, but not very well." And Cathewe fumbled among the other newspapers.
"Dine with me to-night," urged Hewitt.
"I'll tell you what. See that Italian over there with the statues? I am going to buy him out; and if I don't make a sale in half an hour, I'll sign the dinner checks."
"Done!"
"I'll take half of that bet," said Cathewe, rising. "It will be cheap."
Ten minutes later the two older men saw Fitzgerald hang the tray from his shoulders and take his position on the corner.
"I love that chap, Hewitt; he is what I always wanted to be, but couldn't be." Cathewe pulled the drooping ends of his mustache. "If he should write a novel, I'm afraid for your sake that it will be a good one. Keep him busy. Novel writing keeps a man indoors. But don't send him on any damn goose chase for the Pole."
"Why not?"
"Well, he might discover it. But, honestly, it's so God-forsaken and cold and useless. I have hunted musk-ox, and I know something about the place. North Poling, as I call it, must be a man's natural bent; otherwise you kill the best that's in him."