F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
“Twelve minutes to my train.” I didn‟t want to go to the city. I wasn‟t worth a decent
stroke of work, but it was more than that — I didn‟t want to leave Gatsby. I missed that train, and then another, before I could get myself away. “I‟ll call you up,” I said finally. “Do, old sport.” “I‟ll call you about noon.” We walked slowly down the steps. “I suppose Daisy‟ll call too.” He looked at me anxiously, as
if he hoped I‟d corroborate this. “I suppose so.” “Well, good-by.” We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached
the hedge I remembered something and turned around. “They‟re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn.
“You‟re worth the whole damn bunch put together.” I‟ve always been glad I said that. It was the only
compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we‟d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of color against the white