9.55 A.M. W. in his bedroom reading the Press. Consulted his watch and remarked how late he had got up. Just finishing breakfast.
Left with him a copy of the Peacemaker containing Clifford's address. "It is wonderful," he said, "the amount of special publications there are springing up—fads, so to call them. Yet I endorse this matter of arbitration—everything that can be said for it. I have no doubt the time will come when this will be looked upon as a barbarous age, incredibly stupid—hopelessly throat-cutting. Yet there is an instinct in man—in our America—leading inevitably forth from this—yes, inevitably. And these men are that far ahead—have taken the step."
I picked up a piece of old and stained manuscript from the floor—one sheet only—and called W.'s attention to it. He said: "I have no idea in what connection it was written—it was long ago—long, long ago. Yet that writing is the critter's, without a shadow of a doubt." He added—"Take it along—see what you can make of it—it is a waif."
Then away—only there briefly. Day cold—blowy—he thought he would not get out, as proved to be the case. A review of "Gems from W. W." in the Critic W. has not seen yet.