[Linux-mips-kernel] Make Christmas Magical again!

[Official S. L. <off...@ls...>]

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His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up  about  is  ——” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. 
“How  about  saying  you’ll 


come?” “Well, the fact is — the truthof the  matter  is  that  I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather  expect  me  to be  with


them to-morrow. In fact,there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll  do  my  very best to get away.” i  hid  an  unrestrained  “huh!”  and  he  must  have 


heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes  I  left  there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You  see,   they’re 


tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care  of  B.   F.   ——” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I  hung up  the 


receiver. After  that  I  felt  a  certain  shame  for Gatsby  —  one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he  deserved.   However,   that 


was my fault, for he was one of those  who used to sneer  most  bitterly  at  Gatsby  on  the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should  have   known    better    than    to    call    him. 


The morning   of the funeral I went up  to  New  York  to  see Meyer Wolfsheim; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door  that  I  pushed  open,  


on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The  Swastika  Holding  Company, ”  and at first there didn’t seem to be any one inside. But when I’d shouted “hello”  several   times    in 


vain, an argument broke out behind  a  partition,   and  presently  a   lovely    Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. 


“Nobody’s  in, ”  she  said.   “Mr.   Wolfsheim’s  gone   to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously  untrue,   for  someone had begun to whistle “The 



Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please  say  that  Mr.   Carraway  wants  to  see  him.   ” “I  can’t  get  him  back  from    Chicago, can    I?” 



At this moment a voice,  unmistakably  Wolfsheim’s,   called “Stella!” from the other side of the door.“Leave your name on the desk, ”  she  said  quickly.   “I’ll 



give it to him when he gets back.”  “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me  and  began  to  slide  her  hands indignantly up and down her hips. 


“You young men think you can force your  way  in  here  any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it.  When  I  say  he’s  in  Chicago, 



he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh — h!” She looked at me over again.   “Will  you  just  — What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment  Meyer  Wolfsheim  stood  solemnly 


in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into  his  office,   remarking  in  a reverent voice that it was a sad time  for  all  of  us, and   offered    me    a    cigar. 


“My memory goes back to whenI first  met  him, ”  he  said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got  in  the war.   He  


was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t  buy  some  regular clothes. First time I saw him was  when  he come  into    Winebrenner’s    poolroom    at .