I thought again of the ocean liner plunging in the opposite direction, and what my father was thinking at that moment. How had he dared trust me?
"Pshaw," said my companion, reading my thoughts with startling accuracy. "The Middle West isn't a bad place. You'll soon get used to it. Of course, it isn't Broadway," he added, with a sidelong look at me, "but you'll shake down all right. What do you think of the Hudson River? Nothing like this in England, I'll bet."
"Have you ever been there?" I parried.
"No. Little Old New York's good enough for me. I like live ones—not dead ones. There's Storm King over there—can you beat it? Look at the light over it—gosh, it's enough to make a fellow feel queer."
I looked; and the latter part of his remark was undoubtedly true. The thunder clouds still hung about in broken, irregular masses, through which radiated a startling copper glow, tapering off at the upper edges into green. The mountain itself was a dark shape sharply cut against the light side, while, beneath, the river was oily brass. All that was unknown, even sinister, was bound up in fearful beauty. I could not endure it, for it really frightened me. I got up hastily. "Let's go into the smoker—the laboratory sketch," I faltered.
"Sure!—good work! Let's get down to business and cut out the scenery." His words had a most ominous connotation—like the symbolism which critics allege they find in Ibsen's plays, I thought. The result was to drive away for a moment my gloom, and I smiled at my own mental comment.
As we went forward toward the smoker, I looked more closely at my new business associate, beginning with his back, which was all that was visible now. He was severely dressed with a sort of fussy neatness peculiar to the work of American business men's tailors. His shoes shone resplendent, his trousers were creased with painful accuracy, his back was erect and smooth as a duck's. Even his hair had been severely disciplined by his barber, and on it my friend had placed, with due care, a little checked golfing cap that might have been the product of a maker of Swiss watches, so exactly did the little grey and black squares match at the seams. "Engineering efficiency applied to personal attire," I thought to myself. "His clothes remind me of those planned by the mathematicians in Laputa, except that these American mathematicians use formulae of scientific accuracy."
As we took our seats in two large wicker chairs in the smoker I couldn't resist shaking on to the left sleeve of his coat, as if by accident, a cold ash from my empty pipe. Instantly he produced a handkerchief as fine and dainty as a lady's and violently flicked at his sleeve. I murmured an apology and smiled to myself. Then he carefully drew up his trousers so as not to spoil the crease, replaced his handkerchief, adjusted his invisible eye-glasses, and produced a pencil and paper.
"Now to business!" he said.
"One moment," I interrupted and touched the bell. The coloured porter appeared. I saw my friend frown ever so slightly. My sense of humour was returning fast, as I noted how easy it was going to be to tease this deadly earnest, efficient person. "Will you have a whiskey and soda or a bottle of Bass?" I asked in an innocent, friendly voice.