Among the “incidents” that stand out from the dim, miserable smudge of fifteen months, is one that centres about a strange figure, and a most lovable fellow, named Angus Hamilton. Various odd fish drifted on to the paper as reporters, and drifted off again; they form part of an unimportant kaleidoscope. But Angus Hamilton, with his generosity, his startling habits, his undoubted ability, his sad and sudden end, stands out. My position had improved since the publication of the Boyde story, chiefly, of course, because of the way the peerage had been dragged into its details and its headlines. I received no advance in salary, but I received an advance in respect. Even McCloy was different: “Why waste your time with us?” he spat at me like a machine-gun with a rapid smile. “Go home. Collect a lot of umbrellas and turned-up trousers and letters of introduction. Then come out to ‘visit the States,’ marry an heiress, and go home and live in comfort!” He was very lenient to my numerous mistakes. Other papers “got a beat” on me, I “fell down” times without number, I failed to get an interview with all and sundry because I could not find “the nerve” to intrude at certain moments into the lives and griefs of others. But McCloy winked the other eye, even if he never raised my pay. Other men were sacked out of hand. I stayed on. “You’ve got a pull with Mac!” said “Whitey.” New men took the places of the lost. Among these I noticed an Englishman. Cooper noticed him too. “Better share an umbrella and go arm in arm,” he said in his good-natured way. “He’s a fellow-Britisher.” Why he came to New York I never understood. He was a stepson of Pinero, the playwright, and he received occasional moneys from Daniel Frohman, by way of allowance, I supposed, though I never knew exactly. Clever though he was, he was a worse reporter than myself--because he didn’t care two straws whether he got the news or did not get it. He had a “pull” of some sort, with Laffan probably, we thought. He came to our boarding-house in East 19th Street. He had a bad stammer. His methods of reporting were peculiar to himself. Often enough, when sent out on a distasteful assignment, he simply went home. He had literary talent and wrote well when he liked. When Frohman handed out his money, he spent it in giving a big dinner to various friends, though he never included Kay, Louis, or myself among his distinguished guests. We had no dress-suits, for one thing.