"
Whether it was as Kelly said or not, that Harley went into a trance
and poked his nose into the private life of the people he wrote
about, it was a fact that while meditating upon the possible output
of his pen our author was as deaf to his surroundings as though he
had departed into another world, and it rarely happened that his mind
emerged from that condition without bringing along with it something
of value to him in his work.
So it was upon this May morning. For an hour or two Harley lay
quiescent, apparently gazing out of his flat window over the
uninspiring chimney-pots of the City of New York, at the equally
uninspiring Long Island station on the far side of the East River.
It was well for him that his eye was able to see, and yet not see:
forgetfulness of those smoking chimney-pots, the red-zincked roofs,
the flapping under-clothing of the poorer than he, hung out to dry on
the tenement tops, was essential to the construction of such a story
as Messrs. Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick had in mind; and Harley
successfully forgot them, and, coming back to consciousness, brought
with him the dramatis personae of his story--and, taken as a whole,
they were an interesting lot.
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