Distances, he takes no account of: for him they do not exist. At the annual dinner of the Clover Club, at Philadelphia, seated opposite me was the editor of one of the large Chicago newspapers. He had come from Chicago to Philadelphia to be present at the banquet. After all, it is but a twenty-four hours' journey. That's all. I could not help making a remark on the subject to my neighbour at table.
"There's nothing at all astonishing about it," said he. "You see that bald gentleman with a long white beard over there? Well, he has come from San Francisco."
A piece of canvas-back duck, at that moment in my throat, nearly choked me.
"Excuse me," I said to my neighbour, "I have only been in America three months.... I shall get used to it—I shall get used to it."
And, indeed, it was very necessary to get used to it.
I was looking one day at the list of engagements which my manager had just sent me for the following week. To my stupefaction I read:
"Monday, New York.
"Tuesday, Youngstown (Ohio).
"Wednesday, Indianapolis."
I ran to the office of this imperturbable Yankee, and asked him: