He rushed me to his tailor. I had told him of my first poems' being accepted. "Of course, you must be better dressed when you go to see the editor." The tailor looked me over, in whimsical astonishment. He vowed that he could not have a suit ready for me by ten the next morning, as Milton was ordering. "Then you have a suit here for me about ready." "It is ready now." "Alter it immediately to fit Mr. Gregory ... we're about the same height." The tailor said _that_ could be done. For the rest of the day Milton and I peregrinated from one saloon back-room to another ... in each of which the boy seemed to be well known. He drank liquor while I imbibed soft drinks ... the result was better for him than for me. I soon had the stomach-ache, while he only seemed a little over-exhilarated. At his door-step he shoved a ten dollar bill into my hand. I demurred, but accepted it. "I'd hand you more," he apologised, "but the Old Man never lets me have any more than just so much at a time ... says I waste it anyhow ... but I manage to do a lot of charging," he chuckled. "Have you a place to stay to-night?" "Yes ... I have an uncle who lives uptown." * * * * * When I showed up at my uncle's, that night, I showed him my new rig-out, and explained to him how I came into possession of it. But he did not accept my explanation. Instead, he shook his head in mournful dubiousness ... indicating that he doubted my story, and insinuating that I had not come by my suit honestly; as well as by the new dress suitcase Saunders had presented me with, and the shirts and underclothing. "God knows where you'll end up, Johnny." After supper Uncle Jim grew restive again, and he came out frankly with the declaration that he did not want me to stay overnight in the house, but to pack on out to Haberford to my father ... or, since I must stay in town to see my editor (again that faint, dubious smile), I might stay the night at a Mills Hotel ... since my rich friend had given me money, too ... besides my aunt was not so very strong and I put a strain on her. * * * * * At the Mills Hotel I was perched in a cell-like corner room, high up. The room smelt antiseptic. Nearby, Broadway roared and spread in wavering blazons of theatric gold. I looked down upon it, dreaming of my future fame, my great poetic and literary career ... my plays that would some day be announced down there, in great shining sign-letters. * * * * * The sound of an employee's beating with a heavy stick, from door to iron door, to wake up all the Mills Hotel patrons, bestirred me at an early hour. * * * * * I meditated my next move, and now resolved on another try at community life.... The Eos Artwork Studios, founded in the little New York State town of Eos, by the celebrated eccentric author and lecturer, Roderick Spalton.