This trait was evident from his writing—original, snappy, entertaining, but often lacking in fine details of accuracy. Larson, on the other hand, was of a more conservative type, slower but more positive in his actions, and of a nature that inquired into things in a thorough and precise fashion.
Such was the well-known friendship of the two that great was the surprise of all who knew McKay when, his face black with anger, he entered the barroom of the Palace Hotel and demanded:
“Where’s that damned Larson?”
Friends at once tried to ascertain the trouble, and also to urge him to return to his home, as he had evidently been drinking heavily. But McKay was in no mood to be pacified by his friends.
“Don’t interfere in my affairs!” he snarled.
Then he ordered a drink, swallowed it at a gulp, and then seated himself in a far corner of the room.
McFadden, a close friend of both Larson and McKay, went over to him and, linking his arm in McKay’s in a hearty and jovial manner, attempted to take him away. McKay turned on him so savagely that he gave it up, resolving to find Larson and learn the reason for McKay’s anger.
As McKay only sat and watched and waited, his eyes blazed with a deadly gleam.
McKay had become, as Larson expressed it, hypnotized by and infatuated with a really beautiful but altogether shallow and irresponsible sort of woman. The affair had caused Larson a great deal of annoyance, as McKay would, at times, become extraordinarily cheerful and then sink into spells of despondency so sullen and irritable that even the quiet-natured Larson found it impossible to live with him.