Philip Henrici, the owner of the restaurant, had started life as a journeyman baker, and was a Socialist or near-Socialist. He would gladly extend credit to any writer who talked Karl Marx to him. So Gene and I, towards the end of each week, when there was hardly enough money left for car fare—ourselves had passes, but the women needed coin—talked socialism by the ream, according to the extent of our appetite, asserting loudly that "Property was Theft," one of Gene's bright ideas, purloined, I suppose.
Gene's palate addressed itself almost exclusively to pies and coffee and that worked his undoing in the end. For Henrici's coffee was stewing all day, which made it no healthy drink, and they served a big chunk of cheese with every ten-cent parcel of pie—a diet that would have given indigestion to an ostrich in the long run.
And Gene's stomach was "as touchy as his bank account," he used to say.
I said good-by to him in January, 1888.
"First thing you do when you strike London, get me a job there," he said. "The pay envelope in this here town is too small for words, let alone a man with a growing family. If I once get into London and establish a reputation there, I can lay down the law to Lawson (publisher of the News) and squeeze this bunch here as they have been squeezing me."
That wasn't meant as viciously as it sounded. The News paid as well, or a little
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