Ben Hecht

“ I have since passed Bartels on the street a half dozen times. We greet each other with a nervous and even frightened "Hello, there," and walk on. Whenever I see him I worry for several days over the fact that I owe him something which he has no right to expect. "If I could sit down and talk to him as I would like to," I think, "it would be easy." We would talk about his life as a tramp—and old times, so to say. ”

“ My seedy and red-nosed tramp, Bartels, was given a job and a new outfit. And to cap the thing, I wrote a story about him in which I romanticized some of the facts.
Bartels had dropped out of my mind when one day a year later a rather distinguished looking gentleman, freshly barbered, red faced, newly linened and carrying a stick called on me at my office. It was Bartels. I failed to recognize him for a moment. And when I did, I became self-conscious.
"Well," I said, "this is quite a transformation. What’s up? Anything wrong?"
"Oh, no,"? Bartels answered, removing a pair of new gloves. ”

“ I nodded.
"Well," he pursued, "conversations such as that are wonderful. Would you mind coming out to lunch with me. I owe you a lunch, you know." He paused and added, evidently to bribe me, "I owe you more than that. I owe you all this.” And he indicated himself. ”