[89090] in Discussion of MIT-community interests
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: 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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