“Central Park?” suggested Max Skye.
“Exactly,” replied Saunders Rook, grasping at the idea. “The very place I had in mind.”
There were murmurs of “Splendid!” “A big thought!” “There’s a lot more to these quiet chaps than meets the eye.”
Saunders Rook, hearing, glowed.
Just then Oscar Findlater made one of his infrequent appearances at the club. The members were proud of belonging to the same club as Oscar Findlater, who was editor of “The Liberal Voice,” most advanced and oracular of weeklies. He was a vastly serious person of Jovian demeanor. Usually the members flocked about him to catch the pronouncements that dropped from his lips, but on this evening they only nodded toward him and continued to gaze expectantly at Saunders Rook. To Saunders Rook, Oscar Findlater had always seemed a god, despite the fact that “The Liberal Voice” had rejected numerous choice essays on pipe-smoking by the fireplace and kindred topics over which Saunders Rook had toiled. He had mildly envied the attention paid to the editorial Olympian. Now he, Saunders Rook, was actually stealing the spotlight from the great man. It was most pleasant.
“Good evening, Findlater,” said Max Skye. “You know Saunders Rook, don’t you?”
The editor murmured something about never having had that pleasure.
“Rook,” announced Max Skye, impressively, “is going to commit suicide.”
“On the Fourth of July,” added Judy Atwater.
“As a protest,” contributed Rogers Joyce.