A bowl of oatmeal is the least expensive item on the bill of fare at
Gorson's. When I hear a man ordering oatmeal in a cheap eating-house, my
heart aches for him. I had just the money and the intention to procure
another bottle of beer and another box of cigarettes. The sum required to
obtain these necessaries of life is exactly the price of a bowl of oatmeal
and a steak at Gorson's. So I hastily arose to go, and on my way out I had
a brief conversation with the bellicose-appearing waiter, which resulted in
my unknown friend's being overwhelmed with amazement later when the waiter
brought him a warm steak with his oatmeal and said that some one else had
already paid his bill. I did not wait to witness this result, for the man
looked one of the sort to put forth a show of indignation at being made an
object of charity.
An hour later I saw him walking with an air of consequence up Broadway,
smoking what was probably the bit of cigar he had picked up in the
restaurant. He still carried his manuscript, which was wrapped in a soiled
blue paper. As I was hurrying up-town on an assignment for the newspaper,
I could not observe his movements further than to see that when he reached
Fourteenth Street he made for one of the benches in Union Square.
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