Davis lived for many
years, and with which his name is associated. On the Monday
morning, as the stage started out for the station, a young man
came running after it, caught it, and sat down in the only
empty place--beside me. He was Richard Harding Davis. I
recognized him, nor shall I forget that peculiar thrill I
experienced at finding myself in actual, physical contact with
an author. And that this author should be none other than the
creator of Gallegher, prepossessing, vigorous, rather than a
dry and elderly recluse, made my excitement the keener. It
happened also, after entering the smoking-car, that the
remaining vacant seat was at my side, and here Mr. Davis
established himself. He looked at me, he asked if my name was
Winston Churchill, he said he had read my book. How he
guessed my identity I did not discover. But the recollection
of our talk, the strong impression I then received of Mr.
Davis's vitality and personality, the liking I conceived for
him--these have neither changed nor faded with the years, and
I recall with gratitude to-day the kindliness, the sense of
fellowship always so strong in him that impelled him to speak
as he did. A month before he died, when I met him on the
train going to Mt. Kisco, he had not changed.
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