“Over the great bridge， with the sunlight throughthe girders making a constant flicker upon themoving cars， with the city rising up across the riverin white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wishout of non-olfactory money. The city seen from theQueensboro Bridge is always the city seen for thefirst time， in its first wild promise of all the mysteryand the beauty in the world.
A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms， followed by two carriages with drawn blinds and by more cheerful carriages for friends.
The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyesand short upper lips of south-eastern Europe， andI was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid carwas included in their somber holiday. As we crossedBlackwell’s Island a limousine passed us， driven by white chauffeur， in which sat three modish Negroes，two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks oftheir eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry.
“Anything can happen now that we’ve slid overthis bridge，” I thought； “anything at all….”
Even Gatsby could happen， without any particularwonder.
Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby for lunch. Blinking awaythe brightness of the street outside my eyes pickedhim out obscurely in the anteroom， talking toanother man.
“Mr. Carraway this is my friend Mr. Wolfshiem.”
A small， flat-nosed Jew raised his large head andregarded me with two fine growths of hair whichluxuriated in either nostril. After a moment discovered his tiny eyes in the half darkness.
“—so I took one look at him—” said Mr. Wolfshiem，shaking my hand earnestly， “—and what do you thinkI did？”
“What？” I inquired politely.
But evidently he was not addressing me for hedropped my hand and covered Gatsby with his
expressive nose.
“I handed the money to Katspaugh and I sid， ‘Allright， Katspaugh， don’t pay him a penny till he shutshis mouth.’ He shut it then and there.”
Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forwardinto the restaurant whereupon Mr. Wolfshiem swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction.
“Highballs？” asked the head waiter.
“This is a nice restaurant here，” said Mr.
Wolfshiem looking at the Presbyterian nymphs onthe ceiling. “But I like across the street better！”
“Yes， highballs，” agreed Gatsby， and then to Mr.
Wolfshiem： “It’s too hot over there.”
“Hot and small—yes，” said Mr. Wolfshiem， “butfull of memories.”
“What place is that？” I asked.
“The old Metropole.
“The old Metropole，” brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. “Filled with faces dead and gone. Filledwith friends gone now forever. I can’t forget solong as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthalthere. It was six of us at the table and Rosy had eatand drunk a lot all evening. When it was almostmorning the waiter came up to him with a funnylook and says somebody wants to speak to him
outside. ‘All right，’ says Rosy and begins to get upand I pulled him down in his chair.”
“Let the bastards come in here if they want you，Rosy， but don’t you， so help me， move outside thisroom.”
“It was four o’clock in the morning then， and ifwe’d of raised the blinds we’d of seen daylight.”
“Did he go？” I asked innocently.
“Sure he went，”—Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed atme indignantly—He turned around in the door andsays， “Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee！”
Then he went out on the sidewalk and they shothim three times in his full belly and drove away.
“Four of them were electrocuted，” I said， remembering.
“Five with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me inan interested way. “I understand you’re looking for business gonnegtion.”
The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me：
“Oh， no，” he exclaimed， “this isn’t the man！”
“No？” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.
“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk aboutthat some other time.”
“I beg your pardon，” said Mr. Wolfshiem， “I had wrong man.”
A succulent hash arrived， and Mr. Wolfshiem， forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere ofthe old Metropole， began to eat with ferociousdelicacy. His eyes， meanwhile， roved very slowly allaround the room—he completed the arc by turningto inspect the people directly behind. I think that，except for my presence， he would have taken oneshort glance beneath our own table.
“Look here， old sport，” said Gatsby， leaningtoward me， “I’m afraid I made you a little angry thismorning in the car.”
There was the smile again， but this time I heldout against it.
“I don’t like mysteries，” I answered. “And I don’tunderstand why you won’t come out frankly andtell me what you want. Why has it all got to comethrough Miss Baker？”
“Oh， it’s nothing underhand，” he assured me. “MissBaker’s a great sportswoman， you know， and she’dnever do anything that wasn’t all right.”
Suddenly he looked at his watch， jumped up and hurried from the room leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table.
“He has to telephone，” said Mr. Wolfshiem， following him with his eyes. “Fine fellow， isn’t he？
Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman.”
“Yes.”
“He’s an Oggsford man.”
“Oh！”
“He went to Oggsford College in England. Youknow Oggsford College？”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.”
“Have you known Gatsby for a long time？” I inquired.
“Several years，” he answered in a gratified way.
“I made the pleasure of his acquaintance just afterthe war. But I knew I had discovered a man of finebreeding after I talked with him an hour. I said tomyself： ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to takehome and introduce to your mother and sister.’ Hepaused. ‘I see you’re looking at my cuff buttons.’”
I hadn’t been looking at them， but I did now. Theywere composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory.
“Finest specimens of human molars，” he informedme.
“Well！” I inspected them. “That’s a very interestingidea.”
“Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat.
“Yeah， Gatsby’s very careful about women. Hewould never so much as look at a friend’s wife.”