You can't start too soon, and I WILL GO WITH YOU!"

I told him where he could go.

We then tossed to see who should pay for the lunch and who should
tip the head waiter. I lost and had to tip the head waiter. We
separated, and as I walked down the Avenue, it seemed as though to
the proprietor of every shop I passed I owed money. Owing them the
money I did not so much mind; what most distressed me was that they
were so polite about it. I had always wanted to reward their
patience. A favorite dream of mine was to be able to walk down
Fifth Avenue, my pockets stuffed with yellow bills, paying off my
debts. Compared with my steadily decreasing income, how enormous my
debts appeared; but when compared with the income of a man worth--
say-five million dollars, how ridiculous! I had no more than
reached my apartment, than a messenger-boy arrived with an
envelope. It contained a ticket for a round trip on the New Bedford
Line boat leaving that afternoon, a ticket for a stateroom, and a
note from Curtis Spencer. The latter read: "The boat leaves at six
to-night. You arrive at New Bedford seven to-morrow morning. New
Bedford and Fairharbor are connected by a bridge. CROSS IT!"

I tore the note in tiny fragments, and tossed them through the open
window. I was exceedingly angry. As I stood at the window adding to
the name of Curtis Spencer insulting aliases, the street below sent
up hot, stifling odors: the smoke of taxicabs, the gases of an open
subway, the stale reek of thousands of perspiring, unwashed bodies.
From that one side street seemed to rise the heat and smells of all
New York. For relief I turned to my work-table where lay the
opening chapters of my new novel, "The White Plume of Savoy." But