Then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’treached West Egg village before Gatsby began
leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slappinghimself indecisively on the knee of his caramelcoloredsuit.
“Look here， old sport，” he broke out surprisingly.
“What’s your opinion of me， anyhow？”
A little over whelmed， I began the generalizedevasions which that question deserves.
“Well， I’m going to tell you something about mylife，” he interrupted. “I don’t want you to get awrong idea of me from all these stories you hear.”
So he was aware of the bizarre accusations thatflavored conversation in his halls.
“I’ll tell you God’s truth.” His right hand suddenlyordered divine retribution to stand by. “I am theson of some wealthy people in the middle-west—all dead now. I was brought up in America buteducated at Oxford because all my ancestors havebeen educated there for many years. It is a familytradition.”
He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Bakerhad believed he was lying. He hurriedthe phrase “educated at Oxford，” or swallowed it orchoked on it as though it had bothered him before.
And with this doubt his whole statement fell topieces and I wondered if there wasn’t something little sinister about him after all.
“What part of the middle-west？” I inquired
casually.
“San Francisco.”
“I see.”
“My family all died and I came into a good deal ofmoney.”
His voice was solemn as if the memory of thatsudden extinction of a clan still haunted him. For moment I suspected that he was pulling my leg buta glance at him convinced me otherwise.
“After that I lived like a young rajah in all thecapitals of Europe—Paris， Venice， Rome—collectingjewels， chiefly rubies， hunting big game， paintinga little， things for myself only， and trying to forgetsomething very sad that had happened to me longago.”
With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very phrases were wornso threadbare that they evoked no image exceptthat of a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust atevery pore as he pursued a tiger through the Bois deBoulogne.
“Then came the war， old sport. It was a greatrelief and I tried very hard to die but I seemed tobear an enchanted life. I accepted a commissionas first lieutenant when it began. In the ArgonneForest I took two machine-gun detachments so farforward that there was a half mile gap on eitherside of us where the infantry couldn’t advance. Westayed there two days and two nights， a hundredand thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns， and
when the infantry came up at last they found theinsignia of three German divisions among the pilesof dead. I was promoted to be a major and everyAllied government gave me a decoration—even Montenegro， little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea！”
Little Montenegro！ He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his smile. The smilecomprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and sympathized with the brave struggles of theMontenegrin people. It appreciated fully the chainof national circumstances which had elicited thistribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. Myincredulity was submerged in fascination now；it was like skimming hastily through a dozen magazines.
He reached in his pocket and a piece of metal，slung on a ribbon， fell into my palm.
“That’s the one from Montenegro.”
To my astonishment， the thing had an authenticlook.
Orderi di Danilo， ran the circular legend， Montenegro，Nicolas Rex.
“Turn it.”
Major Jay Gatsby， I read， For Valour Extraordinary.
“Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir ofOxford days. It was taken in Trinity Quad—the manon my left is now the Earl of Dorcaster.”
It was a photograph of half a dozen young men inblazers loafing in an archway through which werevisible a host of spires. There was Gatsby， looking little， not much， younger—with a cricket bat in hishand.
Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigersflaming in his palace on the Grand Canal； I saw himopening a chest of rubies to ease， with their crimsonlighteddepths， the gnawings of his broken heart.
“I’m going to make a big request of you today，” hesaid， pocketing his souvenirs with satisfaction， “soI thought you ought to know something about me.
I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody.
You see， I usually find myself among strangersbecause I drift here and there trying to forget thesad thing that happened to me.” He hesitated.
“You’ll hear about it this afternoon.”
“At lunch？”
“No， this afternoon. I happened to find out thatyou’re taking Miss Baker to tea.”
“Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker？”
“No， old sport， I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindlyconsented to speak to you about this matter.”
I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was，but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn’tasked Jordan to tea in order to discuss Mr. JayGatsby. I was sure the request would be somethingutterly fantastic and for a moment I was sorry I’dever set foot upon his over populated lawn.
He wouldn’t say another word. His correctnessgrew on him as we neared the city. We passed PortRoosevelt， where there was a glimpse of red-beltedocean-going ships， and sped along a cobbled slumlined with the dark， undeserted saloons of the fadedgilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashesopened out on both sides of us， and I had a glimpseof Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump withpanting vitality as we went by.
With fenders spread like wings we scattered lightthrough half Astoria—only half， for as we twistedamong the pillars of the elevated I heard thefamiliar “jug—jug—SPAT！” of a motor cycle， and afrantic policeman rode alongside.
“All right， old sport，” called Gatsby. We sloweddown. Taking a white card from his wallet he wavedit before the man’s eyes.
“Right you are，” agreed the policeman， tippinghis cap. “Know you next time， Mr. Gatsby. ExcuseME！”
“What was that？” I inquired. “The picture ofOxford？”
“I was able to do the commissioner a favor once，and he sends me a Christmas card every year.
