[89090] in Discussion of MIT-community interests

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You've Been Accepted by Professional Who's Who

daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Professional Networking Organizati)
Mon Sep 26 11:51:37 2016

Date: Mon, 26 Sep 2016 11:51:36 -0400
To: mit-talk-mtg@charon.mit.edu
From: Professional Networking Organization <professionalnetworkingorganization@howknow.top>
Reply-to: Professional Networking Organization <professionalnetworkingorganization@howknow.top>


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 Invitation to Professional Who's Who 






























after   five,   and    no     one    answered    the    phone. "Will you ring again?" "I've rung them three times." "It's very important." 



"Sorry. I'm afraid no one's there." I  went  back  to  the  drawing-room  and  thought  for   an instant that  they were chance visitors, all these  official  people  who    suddenly   filled 


it. But, as they drew back thesheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes,   his  protest continued in my brain: "Look here, old sport, you've got to get  somebody  for  me. 


You've got to try hard. I can't go through this alone." Some one started to  ask me   questions,   but  I  broke  away and going up-stairs looked 


hastily through the  unlocked  parts  of  his  desk  —  he'd never told me definitely that  his parents were  dead.   But  there  was  nothing  —  only  the 


picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten  violence,   staring  down     from    the    wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New  York  with  a  letter 


to Wolfsheim, which asked for information and urged  him  to come out  on   the  next  train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure  he'd  start  when  he  saw  the 


newspapers, just as I was sure there'd be a wire from Daisy before noon  —  but  neither   a wire nor Mr. Wolfsheim arrived; no one arrived except  more  police   and   photographers  and 


newspaper men. When the butler brought back wolfsheim's answer i began to  have  a   hiling of defiance, of scornful solidarity  between   Gatsby  and  me  against   them    all. 


Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of  the  most  terrible shocks of my life to me I  hardly can believe it that it is true at all.   Such  a  mad 


act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as   I  am  tied   up  in  some very important hi and cannot get  mixed  up  in  this  thing  now.   If  there  is 


anything I can do a little later let me knowin a letter by Edgar.   I  hardly  know  where  I  am when I hear about a thing like this  and  am   completely    knocked    down    and   out. 




Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let  me  know about the funeral etc. Do  not  know  his  family  at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and   Long  Distance  said 


Chicago was calling I thought this would be  Daisy  at  last.    But  the  connection  came through as a man's voice, very thin and far away. 




"This is Slagle speaking..." "Yes?" The name was unfamiliar. "Hell  of  a  note,      isn't    it?    Get    my    wire?"  "There haven't been any wires." 


"Young Parke's in trouble," he said  rapidly.   "They  picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular  from  New   York 



giving 'em the numbers just five minutes before. What d'you know about that,   hey?  You never can tell in these hick towns ——" "Hello!" I interrupted  breathlessly.    "Look  here  —  this 



isn't Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby's dead." There was a long silence on  the  other  end  of  the  wire, followed by an exclamation... then  a  quick  squawk   as  the connection   was    broken. 


I think it was on the  third  day  that  a  telegram  signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in  Minnesota. It   said  only  that  the  sender  was  leaving .


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<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Courier New, Times New Roman, Arial; font-size: 9px; color: #ffffff;"></span>
<p></p>
<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Courier New, Times New Roman, Arial; font-size: 11px;"></span>
<p>after   five,   and    no     one    answered    the    phone. "Will you ring again?" "I've rung them three times." "It's very important." </p>
<BR /><span style="font-family: sans-serif, Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 11px; color: #ffffff;"></span>
<p align="center" style="font: 12px;"></p>
<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: sans-serif, Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 9px;"></span>
<p align="right" style="font: 10px;">"Sorry. I'm afraid no one's there." I  went  back  to  the  drawing-room  and  thought  for   an instant that  they were chance visitors, all these  official  people  who    suddenly   filled </p>
<BR /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 9px; color: #ffffff;"></span>
<p align="center" style="font: 16px;">
it. But, as they drew back the<u>sheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes,   his  protest continued in my brain: "Look here, old sport, you've got to get  </u>somebody  for  me. </p>
<BR /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"></span>
<p align="right">
You've got to try hard. I can't go through this alone." Some one started to  ask me   questions,   but  I  broke  away and going up-stairs looked 
</p>
<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<p align="center">hastily through the  unlocked  parts  of  his  desk  —  he'd never told me definitely that  his parents were  dead.   But  there  was  nothing  —  only  the </p>
<BR />
<p align="center">
picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten  violence,   staring  down     from    the    wall. Next morning I sent the butler to New  York  with  a  letter </p>
<BR /><BR />
<p align="left" style="font: 10px;">
to Wolfsheim, which asked for information and urged  him  to come out  on   the  next  train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure  he'd  start  when  he  saw  the </p>
<BR /><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif, Times New Roman, Arial; font-size: 10px;"></span>
<p align="right" style="font: 14px;">
newspapers, just as I was sure there'd be a wire from Daisy before noon  —  but  neither   a wire nor Mr. Wolfsheim arrived; no one arrived except  more  police   and   photographers  and </p>
<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<p>
newspaper men. When the butler brought back wolfsheim's answer i began to  have  a   hiling of defiance, of scornful solidarity  between   Gatsby  and  me  against   them    all. </p>
<BR />
<p align="right">
Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of  the  most  terrible shocks of my life to me I  hardly can believe it that it is true at all.   Such  a  mad </p>
<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif, Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 7px;"></span>
<p align="center">
act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as   I  am  tied   up  in  some very important hi and cannot get  mixed  up  in  this  thing  now.   If  there  is </p>
<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"></span>
<p>
anything I can do a little later let me know<B>in a letter by Edgar.   I  hardly  know  where  I  am when I hear about a thing like this  and  am   completely    knocked    down    and </B>  out. </p>
<BR />
<p align="left"></p>
<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: sans-serif, Helvetica, Arial;"></span>
<p>
Yours truly Meyer Wolfshiem and then hasty addenda beneath: Let  me  know about the funeral etc. Do  not  know  his  family  at all. When the phone rang that afternoon and   Long  Distance  said </p>
<BR /><span style="font-family: sans-serif, Helvetica, Arial; font-size: 7px;"></span>
<p align="center" style="font: 11px;">
Chicago was calling I thought this would be  Daisy  at  last.    But  the  connection  came through as a man's voice, very thin and far away. </p>
<BR /><BR />
<p></p>
<BR /><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Courier New, Times New Roman, Arial; font-size: 7px;"></span>
<p align="right">
"This is Slagle speaking..." "Yes?" The name was unfamiliar. "Hell  of  a  note,      isn't    it?    Get    my    wire?"  "There haven't been any wires." 
</p>
<BR /><BR />
<p align="left" style="font: 15px;">"Young Parke's in trouble," he said  rapidly.   "They  picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular  from  New   York </p>
<BR /><BR />
<p></p>
<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; color: #ffffff;"></span>
<p align="center">giving 'em the numbers just five minutes before. What d'you know about that,   hey?  You never can tell in these hick towns ——" "Hello!" I interrupted  breathlessly.    "Look  here  —  this </p>
<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<p></p>
<BR /><BR />
<p align="right">isn't Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby's dead." There was a long silence on  the  other  end  of  the  wire, followed by an exclamation... then  a  quick  squawk   as  the connection   was    broken. </p>
<BR /><BR />
<p align="center" style="font: 9px;">
I think it was on the  third  day  that  a  telegram  signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in  Minnesota. It   said  only  that  the  sender  was  leaving .</p>
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