I happened to read again the
other day the little collection of stories--his first, I
think--which commences with "Gallegher" and includes "The
Other Woman" and one or more of the Van Bibber tales. His
first stories were not his best. He increased in skill and
was stronger at the finish than at the start. But "Gallegher"
is a fine story, and is written in that eager, breathless
manner which was all his own, and which always reminds me of a
boy who has hurried home to tell of some wonderful thing he
has seen. Of course it is improbable. Most good stories are
and practically all readable books of history. No old
newspaper man can believe that there ever existed such a "copy
boy" as Gallegher, or that a murderer with a finger missing
from one hand could escape detection even in a remote country
village. Greed would have urged the constable to haul to the
calaboose every stranger who wore gloves. But he managed to
attach so many accurate details of description to the romance
that it leaves as definite an impression of realism as any of
Mr. Howells's purposely realistic stories. The scene in the
newspaper office, the picture of the prize-fight, the mixture
of toughs and swells, the spectators in their short gray
overcoats with pearl buttons (like most good story-tellers he
was strong on the tailoring touch), the talk of cabmen and
policemen, the swiftness of the way the story is told, as if
he were in a hurry to let his reader know something he had
actually seen--create such an impression of truth that when
the reader finishes he finds himself picturing Gallegher on
the witness-stand at the murder trial receiving the thanks of
the judge.
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