The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfsheim; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way.

The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be any one inside.

But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.

“Nobody’s in,” she said.

“Mr. Wolfsheim’s gone to Chicago.”

The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.

“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”

“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”

At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfsheim’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door.

“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly.

“I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”

“But I know he’s there.”

She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.

“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded.

“We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.”

I mentioned Gatsby.

“Oh — h!” She looked at me over again.

“Will you just — What was your name?”

She vanished.

In a moment Meyer Wolfsheim stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands.

He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.

“My memory goes back to when I first met him,” he said.

“A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war.

He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes.

First time I saw him was when he come into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job.

He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days.

‘come on have some lunch with me,’ I said.

He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”

“Did you start him in business?” I inquired.

“Start him! I made him.” “Oh.”

“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter.

I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good.

I got him to join up in the American Legion and he used to stand high there.

Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany.

We were so thick like that in everything.”— he held up two bulbous fingers ——” always together.”

I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.

“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment.

“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”

“I’d like to come.”

“Well, come then.”

The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.

“I can’t do it — I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.

“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”

“When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out.

When I was a young man it was different — if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end.

You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it — to the bitter end.”

I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up.

“Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly.

For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand.

“Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested.

“After that my own rule is to let everything alone.”

When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle.

After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall.

His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me.

“Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers.

“Look there.”

It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands.

He pointed out every detail to me eagerly.

“Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes.

He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself.

“Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.”

“Very well. Had you seen him lately?”

“He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now.

Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it.

He knew he had a big future in front of him.

And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.”

He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes.

Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy.

“Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.”

He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see.

On the last fly-leaf was printed the word Schedule, and the date September 12, 1906, and underneath:

Rise from bed. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.00 a.m.

Dumbbell exercise and wall-scaling. . . . .. 6.15-6.30

Study electricity, etc. . . . . . . . . . . . 7.15-8.15

Work. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8.30-4.30 p.m.

Baseball and sports. . . . . . . . . . . . 4.30-5.00

Practice elocution, poise and how to attain it... 5.00-6.00

Study needed inventions. . . . . . . . . . . 7.00-9.00

General Resolves

No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable]

No more smokeing or chewing Bath every other day

Read one improving book or magazine per week

Save $5.00 {crossed out} $3.00 per week

Be better to parents

“I come across this book by accident,” said the old man.

“It just shows you, don’t it?”

“It just shows you.”

“Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something.

Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind?

He was always great for that.

He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.”

He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me.

I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use.

A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars.

So did Gatsby’s father.

And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way.

The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour.

But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came.

About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate —

first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and I in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin.

As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground.

I looked around.

It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three months before.

I’d never seen him since then.

I don’t know how he knew about the funeral, or even his name.

The rain poured down his thick glasses, and he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled from Gatsby’s grave.

I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was already too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower.

Dimly I heard someone murmur, “Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then the owl-eyed man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice.

We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars.

Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate.

“I couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked.

“Neither could anybody else.”

“Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.”

He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in.

“The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said.

One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time.

Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gayeties, to bid them a hasty good-by.

I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-that’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations:

“Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands.

And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate.