Meredith Nicholson

The Siege of the Seven Suitors Meredith Nicholson

I dined with Hartley Wiggins at the Hare and Tortoise on an evening in October, not verylong ago. It may be well to explain that the Hare and Tortoise is the smallest and most select ofclubs, whose windows afford a pleasant view of Gramercy Park. The club is comparativelyyoung, and it is our joke that we are so far all tortoises, creeping through our several professionswithout aid from any hare. I hasten to explain that I am a chimney doctor. Wiggins is a lawyer; atleast I have seen his name in a list of graduates of the Harvard Law School, and he has an officedown-town where I have occasionally found him sedately playing solitaire while he waited forsome one to take him out to luncheon. He spends his summers on a South Dakota ranch, fromwhich he derives a considerable income. When tough steaks are served from the club grill, wealways attribute them to the cattle on Wiggins's hills. Or if the lamb is ancient, we declare it to beof Wiggins's shepherding. It is the way of our humor to hold Wiggins responsible for things. Hisgood nature is usually equal to the worst we can do to him. He is the kind of fellow that oneinstinctively indicts without hearing testimony. We all know perfectly well that Wiggins's ranchis a wheat ranch.