Jimmy Whale was different. He was a writer. Perhaps that made him odd. He lived in a small apartment consisting of two rooms at 20 Washington Square. Both rooms were libraries. Books were piled up everywhere. Hidden behind the books was a couch on which he occasionally slept. His clothes were usually scattered about the rooms, although there was a clothes-closet in the larger one. It was generally empty.
Jimmy was twenty-five, still young enough to be enthusiastic about conquering the literary world. He wrote novels, plays, short stories. They were all duds except the short stories. Occasionally one went across. Then he lived like a king until his money was gone, ordering steak for breakfast. He possessed a fine style of writing but he was not successful because he wrote off the beaten track.
For months Jimmy had been begging Dorothy to visit his rooms.
"They're in a tremendously big house," he said. "Huge red brick and lots of dog. I live in the tail. It's a neat existence. My windows face on MacDougal Alley and there before me are rows of genteel stables that once were domiciles for horses and now are studios for asses who believe they are artistic. At that they're kind of nice, homelike and cozy. You could live a month in one on a box of oats and a bale of hay."
So Dorothy journeyed down to Washington Square. She climbed an elaborate black iron stoop and rang the bell. It boomed out sonorously, echoing from room to room. It was an efficient bell and kept up its clamor until it got action.
At last a man in blue-striped overalls came and opened the door.
"Does Mr. Jimmy Whale live here?" she asked hesitantly.
The man scratched his head. "Oh, you mean that writer chap," he beamed.
"Swift deduction," she smiled. "Yes, I mean the confessionist."
"Follow me, lady," he directed, "and I'll show you the way, though Mr. Whale usually goes in the downstairs entrance."
"I'll go downstairs," she offered.
"Never mind," said he curtly. "As long as you are here, it doesn't matter."
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