This seems to be shaping up nicely.
My first induction in the strange and terrible world inhabited by the likes of Doctor Rypmaw was orchestrated by one Elliot George Whitney. Georgie was one of those Whitneys, who could also boast of a family connection to the Vanderbilts; he was notorious in Manhattan circles for not having much else to boast upon. In that he was hardly unique, but there were peculiarities about him that allowed him to stand out. He was not especially tall, but most exceedingly wide. Seeing him sit, one wondered how he moved; and to see Georgie move was a vision that would not soon be forgotten.
I would never have gone so far as to call him ‘friend,’ even in those more innocent days, but he had his own virtues. For one thing, he had money; for another, he was happy to have other people spend it, as long as he was along for the journey. And, finally, while he was a snorting pig of a man back then, it was never in the sense of being a cad or a bounder. Indeed, Georgie when I first knew him was the very picture of a happy porker, wallowing in the mud up to his snout. There were many whose presence was less tolerable.
He certainly tolerated me. “Harry!” he called out to me, one night at Delmonico’s. “Join me in my magnificent repast!” The invitation was welcome, if not the inviter — but when I looked down at his table, I started to wonder about that, as well. Georgie’s plate looked… rather sparse. He was a man who would think nothing of two lobsters at supper, then follow them with a bucket of oysters, but tonight he was contenting himself with a mere soup and salad.