That irritated me more than ever--his stupid patronage, his abominable self-assurance. I remember paying the check very grandiloquently, and leaving him alone--as he was so fond of being, at one time--in the center of the room. When we met thereafter of course we were exceedingly chilly to each other. Once I saw him with Mrs. Thus-and-So, and he cut me dead. I suppose I looked painfully inadequate, utterly unimportant to him that afternoon. He had moved to higher circles; and after all I was only a struggling young editor, who dressed rather badly--; all right for certain occasions, but hardly one to be seen bowing to at a moment like this! I read his mind, you see; and again he knew that I knew; and of course he hated me from that time forth. It was at this time that the phrase, "See America First," came into such wide circulation. It was considered the thing to look over the Grand Canyon or the Yellowstone Park, or to run down to Florida, rather than cross the ocean; and I next heard of Shelby in the West, diligently writing--for other magazines. He had brought out one more novel, "The Orange Sunset," and it had gone far better than the first, which must have heartened him and given him a fresh impetus. He changed book publishers, too--went to a smarter firm who did much for him in the way of publicity. And special editions, in limp covers, helped his sales. Even his short stories were brought out, and as little brochures, in gorgeous binding with colored illustrations, a single tale would attract the romantic maiden. It was a chocolate-cream appeal; but cream-drops have their uses in this weary world. The San Francisco earthquake--I believe they always allude to it out there as "the fire"--occurred--that next year; and Stanton, who had succeeded old Hanscher in Herald Square--the latter had died in harness at his desk--heard, in that mysterious way that newspaper men hear everything, that Shelby was in the ill-fated city when the earth rocked on that disastrous night. Immediately he telegraphed him, "Write two thousand words of your experiences, your sensations in calamity. Wire them immediately. Big check awaits you." Silence followed. Stanton and I talked it over, and we concluded that Shelby must have been killed. "If he isn't dead, here at last is the great adventure he has been longing for," I couldn't help saying. No word ever came from him; but two weeks later he blew into town, and again Stanton found out that he had arrived. "Why didn't you answer my wire?" he telephoned him. "I couldn't," Shelby rather whimpered over the line. "You see, Stanton, old top, the thing got me too deeply. I just couldn't--I hope you'll understand--write one word of it." But it was not the grief of the man who feels so deeply that he cannot shed a tear. It was the craven in Shelby that had shocked the meretricious Shelby into insensibility, into utter inarticulateness in one of the crowning disasters of the ages.