t around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath:      Rise from bed                                  6:00      a.m.     Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling              6:15-6:30 ”     Study electricity, etc.                        7:15-8:15 ”     Work                                           8:30-4:30 p.m.     Baseball and sports                            4:30-5:00 ”     Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ”     Study needed inventions                        7:00-9:00 ”                 General Resolves    * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable]    * No more smokeing or chewing.    * Bath every other day    * Read one improving book or magazine per week    * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week    * Be better to parents  “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?”  “It just shows you.”  “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.”  He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use.  A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came.  ------------------------------------------------------------------------  About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I looked around. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three