It was Gatsby’s father， a solemn old man veryhelpless and dismayed， bundled up in a long cheapulster against the warm September day. His eyesleaked continuously with excitement and when Itook the bag and umbrella from his hands he beganto pull so incessantly at his sparse grey beard that Ihad difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on thepoint of collapse so I took him into the music roomand made him sit down while I sent for somethingto eat. But he wouldn’t eat and the glass of milkspilled from his trembling hand.
“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper，” he said. “Itwas all in the Chicago newspaper. I started rightaway.”
“I didn’t know how to reach you.”
His eyes， seeing nothing， moved ceaselessly aboutthe room.
“It was a mad man，” he said. “He must have beenmad.”
“Wouldn’t you like some coffee？” I urged him.
“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now， Mr.—”
‘‘Carraway.”
“Well， I’m all right now. Where have they gotJimmy？”
I took him into the drawing-room， where his sonlay， and left him there. Some little boys had come upon the steps and were looking into the hall； whenI told them who had arrived they went reluctantlyaway.
After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door andcame out， his mouth ajar， his face flushed slightly，his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. Hehad reached an age where death no longer has thequality of ghastly surprise， and when he lookedaround him now for the first time and saw theheight and splendor of the hall and the great roomsopening out from it into other rooms his griefbegan to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped himto a bedroom upstairs； while he took off his coatand vest I told him that all arrangements had beendeferred until he came.
“I didn’t know what you’d want， Mr. Gatsby—”
‘‘Gatz is my name.”
“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to takethe body west.”
He shook his head.
“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He roseup to his position in the East. Were you a friend ofmy boy’s， Mr.—？”
“We were close friends.”
“He had a big future before him， you know. Hewas only a young man but he had a lot of brainpower here.”
He touched his head impressively and I nodded.
“If he’d of lived he’d of been a great man. A manlike James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up thecountry.”
“That’s true，” I said， uncomfortably.
He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet， tryingto take it from the bed， and lay down stiffly—wasinstantly asleep.
That night an obviously frightened person calledup and demanded to know who I was before he
would give his name.
“This is Mr. Carraway，” I said.
“Oh— ” He s o u n d e d r e l i e v e d . “Th i s i sKlipspringer.”
I was relieved too for that seemed to promiseanother friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it tobe in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd so I’dbeen calling up a few people myself. They were hardto find.
“The funeral’s tomorrow，” I said. “Three o’clock，here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’dbe interested.”
“Oh， I will，” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’mnot likely to see anybody， but if I do.”
His tone made me suspicious.
“Of course you’ll be there yourself.”
“Well， I’ll certainly try. What I called up aboutis—”
‘‘Wait a minute，” I interrupted. “How aboutsaying you’ll come？”
“Well， the fact is—the truth of the matter that I’m staying with some people up here inGreenwich and they rather expect me to be withthem tomorrow. In fact there’s a sort of picnic orsomething. Of course I’ll do my very best to getaway.”
I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh！” and he musthave heard me for he went on nervously：
“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I leftthere. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to havethe butler send them on. You see they’re tennisshoes and I’m sort of helpless without them. Myaddress is care of B. F. —”
I didn’t hear the rest of the name because I hungup the receiver.
After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—onegentleman to whom I telephoned implied that hehad got what he deserved. However， that was myfault， for he was one of those who used to sneermost bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’sliquor and I should have known better than to callhim.
The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem； I couldn’t seem toreach him any other way. The door that I pushedopen on the advice of an elevator boy was marked“The Swastika Holding Company” and at first theredidn’t seem to be any one inside. But when I’dshouted “Hello” several times in vain an argumentbroke out behind a partition and presently a lovelyJewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinizedme with black hostile eyes.
“Nobody’s in，” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone toChicago.”
The first part of this was obviously untrue forsomeone had begun to whistle “The Rosary，” tunelessly， inside.
“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”
“I can’t get him back from Chicago， can I？”
At this moment a voice， unmistakably Wolfshiem’scalled “Stella！” from the other side of the door.
“Leave your name on the desk，” she said quickly.
“I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”
“But I know he’s there.”
She took a step toward me and began to slide herhands indignantly up and down her hips.
“You young men think you can force your way in here anytime，” she scolded. “We’re gettingsickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago， he’s inChiCAgo.” I mentioned Gatsby.
“Oh—h！” She looked at me over again. “Will youjust—what was your name？”
She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem
stood solemnly in the doorway， holding out bothhands. He drew me into his office， remarking in areverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us，and offered me a cigar.
“My memory goes back to when I first met him，”
he said. “A young major just out of the army andcovered over with medals he got in the war. He wasso hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniformbecause he couldn’t buy some regular clothes.
First time I saw him was when he come into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street andasked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a coupleof days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me，’ I sid.
