It was not simply from the standpoint of my own ignorance that
Paterson's store of knowledge assumed such vast proportions, for it was
seldom opened except in the presence of Mr. Pulitzer, in whom were
combined a tenacious memory, a profound acquaintance with the subjects
which Paterson had taken for his province, an analytic mind, and a zest
for contradiction. Everything Paterson said was immediately pounced upon
by a vigorous, astute, and well-informed critic who derived peculiar
satisfaction from the rare instances in which he could detect him in an
inaccuracy.
The conversation between Mr. Pulitzer and Paterson, or, rather,
Paterson's frequently interrupted monologue, lasted until we had all
finished dinner, and the butler had lighted Mr. Pulitzer's cigar. In the
middle of an eloquent passage from Paterson, Mr. Pulitzer rose, turned
abruptly toward me, held out his hand, and said, "I'm very glad to have
met you, Mr. Ireland; you have entertained me very much. Please come
here to-morrow at eleven o'clock, and I'll take you out for a drive.
Good-night." He took Paterson's arm and left the room.
The door, like all the doors in Mr. Pulitzer's various residences, shut
automatically and silently; and after one of the secretaries had drawn a
heavy velvet curtain across the doorway, so that not the faintest sound
could escape from the room, I was chaffed good-naturedly about my debut
as a candidate.
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