Before I could give him the benefit of my thought on this subject he vanished from my sight. I perceived that he had dived under the table and was subjecting the floor to a microscopic scrutiny. Presently he looked up.
“Wanted to be sure whether the floor is painted or stained,” he explained. “I think I’ll have my floors painted.” There was pride in his voice as he accented the word “my.” He got to his feet.
“Well, I must rush along. Hope I can sell a few gross of dolls before the market closes. Glad I ran into you. By the way, if you hear of anybody who wants to buy dolls——”
He did not finish his sentence, for his attention was caught by the door-knob of the front door and he bent over to see how it worked.
Then he went out. I did not see Hosmer Appleby again for six years.
New York eats men. It ate Appleby. At least I did not encounter him. He may have ridden in the same cars or lived in the same block; but our paths did not cross until one afternoon at the art museum. It was, as I recall it, just six years after we drank coffee together and he told me about his aim in life. I was in one gallery of the museum looking at a new exhibition of etchings, when I heard a commotion in the next gallery. A bass voice was in somewhat violent controversy with a tenor voice.
“But you can’t lie in that there bed,” the bass voice protested loudly.
“Why can’t I?”
“That there bed,” declared the bass voice, “was slep’ in by Napoleon. It’s worth twenty thousand dollars. We can’t have people layin’ in it, now can we?”
“But I’m only trying it.”