Professor “Jawn” Galloway was of a different “caste” from Richard, but they matched up equally as chums. Galloway had been one of the West Side group; in fact, he had been a West-sider from birth, one of those clever Irish lads who can rise to distinction out of the soddenest of homes. Dan Galloway, the father, was a hearty, noisy—and it must be admitted—dirty Tammany helper. Dublin had brought him forth and he had seen troublous times there. A lucky immigration and a still luckier political situation saved him the trouble of working and gave him lodgings, beer and victuals. “Jawn” Galloway, the son, inherited nearly every trait of his father save two—he was the farthest removed from a loafer; and he hated uncleanliness. By the dint of sheerest personal push he had gone through school, college and university and was making a name for himself in the newest of callings, psychotherapeutics. At twenty-eight he held honorary doctorates from honourable universities; but to look at his rubicund Irish face, to hear his laughter and to see his joy over the coarser delights of life, one would never guess all that.
As the S.S. Victoria neared New York, Richard prepared a letter to John Galloway. It read:
“Pal Jawn—August will be your vacation month, I am a prophet and foresee much. Besides, you admitted when I left that you would be free in August. You are to go to Penn Yan (not China), New York, and thence to ‘Red Jacket’—which is a house—and inquire for your hostess, Mrs. Emma Wells. Some time to-day I shall let her invite you.
“The daughter, Geraldine, will interest your Irish heart. She sheds flattery as if she were used to it, as I suspect she is; but she has never met your subtle blarney. I’m on tiptoe to see the effect on her.
“But that isn’t the point. It may turn out to be. We’ll leave it to the gods, who manage beautifully if we are not too presumptuous. The point is a boy, neurotic, just your kind; idiot with gleams of sense; drinks, perfect guzzler, but not primary, you know. And I’ve got hold of the primary interest!! It’s climbing trees and furling spinnakers. Aren’t you itching to get at it?
“I bet I’ve spoiled your vacation, O.K.! I hope so.
“Yours,
—“Wait. I’m travelling incognito. It’s a glorious experience. Wonder why I never thought of it before. Accident—I mean the gods did it. Of course, we know there ain’t no accidents, just incidents! My first name is Richard and my last name is Richard—Richard Richard. Can you beat it? Monotonous? Not at all. There’s Dick Richard and Richard Dick and Dick Dick. I wanted to have a middle name, Richard, too, but got scared off.
“You don’t know the joy of incognito. To be free from the everlasting questions. I’m beginning to see—data for you—that the name hampered me, drew me into myself, made me shy and backward except with good old pals like you, Jawn, who know what’s what. If I ever have a boy I’ll not junior him. Fancy a George Washington, Jr. Think of the life of that kid! And it sounds like George Cohan, too!
“Practise my new name. There must be no slips. More data—the boy (name, Walter Wells; age, twenty-two; specialities, tree climbing, spinnaker furling and wood alcohol) knows about the name, my name. He’s holding it over me! I let him and we thrive together. Also (more data) I give him two drinks a day. Bring (more data) some superfine cognac.