“He’s a man of one idea. He will talk about aviation and nothing else. He dislikes crowds and has had difficulty maintaining a show of good nature in the face of unwelcome attention. He has managed to do so, however, excepting when addressed or referred to as ‘Lucky Lindy,’ a nickname he just can’t stand.
“He was kind enough to ask me to fly with him on Long Island and naturally I jumped at the chance. We took a taxi out to the field and every traffic cop on the way stopped us so they could shake hands with him and pat him on the back. I thought we’d never get there, and when we did get there, that we wouldn’t be able to leave the ground without killing two or three hundred people.
“He said it was like that every time he attempted to go up or land, hundreds of wild-eyed fans crowding around him in spite of the danger. But we did finally get started and it was wonderful. I felt as safe as if I’d been riding in a chair at Atlantic City.”
He told them of Fred Stone, of an occasion when he and Fred had dined together at old Rector’s. At the next table were two famous Princeton football players, each over six feet tall and weighing two hundred and twenty pounds. The sons of Old Nassau had been drinking something contentious and tried to pick a quarrel with him and Stone, though they had no idea who Stone and Osborne were and certainly could have had no reason to “fuss” at either of them.
Fred did not want to make a scene and ignored the athletes’ slurring remarks, but when he and Osborne got up to leave and the Princeton boys followed them and jostled them, the comedian lost his temper, grasped a collegiate throat in each hand, lifted the pair up bodily and knocked their heads together till they were unconscious, and then tossed them into the checkroom.
He told them of having been in the Metropole at supper with Herman Rosenthal the night the gambler was called away from the table and shot to death by four gangsters; of having warned Jim Jeffries not to drink the tea that “poisoned” him just prior to the fight with Jack Johnson; of having tipped off Kid Gleason in 1919 that some of his ballplayers were throwing him down; of having accompanied General Pershing to Marshal Foch’s headquarters when the American commander offered his armies to the Frenchman to do with as he pleased; of having escaped death by eight inches when the Germans dropped their first bombs on Paris; of having taught Lloyd Waner how to avoid always hitting to left field; of having taken Irving Berlin out of “Nigger Mike’s” place and set him to writing songs; of having advised Flo Ziegfeld to dress his chorus in skirts instead of tights; of having suggested and helped organize the Actors’ Equity, and of having informed the Indiana police where to find Gerald Chapman.
He had been everywhere and seen everything, and Blades and Garner envied him his wealth of experience.
He hoped he hadn’t bored them.
“Not at all!” said Blades.
“It’s a treat to listen to you,” said Garner.
“You ought to write a book of memoirs,” said Blades.
“I’ve been urged to many times,” said Osborne, “but I’m never in one place long enough to get at it. I’ve got chronic Wanderlust.”
“So have I,” said Garner, “but it doesn’t do me any good.”
“Poor Luke!” said Blades. “He’d like to live on trains, but he’s only been out of the state once.”
“Not counting two or three trips to Newark,” said Garner.
“Travel is a great thing!” observed Osborne. “It has its drawbacks and discomforts, but one’s experiences and adventures are worth a lot more than they cost.”
“Luke had a queer little experience the only time he went anywhere,” said Blades. “Tell Mr. Osborne about it, Luke.”
“Oh, it’s nothing much. Just a kind of mystery I was mixed up in on the way out to Chicago.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Osborne, assuming a polite interest.
“Well,” said young Garner, “I’ll try to make it brief. About a year ago I had an idea for a play. I wrote one act and read it to George Cohan. He liked it and told me to finish it and bring it to him. When I had finished it, I learned he was in Chicago. I couldn’t wait for him to get back so I decided to go out there and see him, though I had to borrow money for the trip. I was impatient and took the Century.
“In the section across from me there was one of the most beautiful women I ever saw, a young woman about twenty-five, dark, well dressed, full of class, nice-looking. She had a book, one of Fletcher’s detective stories, but I noticed she didn’t turn more than three pages between New York and Albany. Most of the time she just stared at the river.
“She was going to Chicago, too, and I’ll confess that I wished we would become acquainted long before we got there. I wished it, but didn’t believe it, because she was evidently not the kind you could meet unconventionally.
“I went in the diner about seven and was given the only vacant chair at a table for four. My table companions were an elderly couple and a man a little older than I, a man of striking appearance, handsome, and dark enough to suggest Spanish or Italian ancestry.
“The elderly couple finished their meal and left. The ‘Spaniard’ was just beginning to eat when the girl from my car came in and took one of the seats just vacated.
“Her glance and the ‘Spaniard’s’ met. There was mutual
