F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
everything.”— he held up two bulbous fingers ——” always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World‟s
Series transaction in 1919. “Now he‟s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his
closest friend, so I know you‟ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I‟d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook
his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can‟t do it —I can‟t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There‟s nothing to get mixed up in. It‟s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in
any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different —if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that‟s sentimental, but I mean it — to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined
not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand.