From New York arrived one morning at Gatsby’sdoor and asked him if he had anything to say.
“Anything to say about what？” inquired Gatsbypolitely.
“Why， —any statement to give out.”
It transpired after a confused five minutes thatthe man had heard Gatsby’s name around his officein a connection which he either wouldn’t reveal ordidn’t fully understand. This was his day off andwith laudable initiative he had hurried out “to see.”
It was a random shot， and yet the reporter’sinstinct was right. Gatsby’s notoriety， spread aboutby the hundreds who had accepted his hospitalityand so become authorities on his past， had increasedall summer until he fell just short of being news.
Contemporary legends such as the “undergroundpipe-line to Canada” attached themselves to him，and there was one persistent story that he didn’tlive in a house at all， but in a boat that looked likea house and was moved secretly up and down theLong Island shore. Just why these inventions werea source of satisfaction to James Gatz of NorthDakota， isn’t easy to say.
James Gatz—that was really， or at least legally， hisname. He had changed it at the age of seventeenand at the specific moment that witnessed thebeginning of his career—when he saw Dan Cody’syacht drop anchor over the most insidious flat onLake Superior. It was James Gatz who had beenloafing along the beach that afternoon in a torn greenjersey and a pair of canvas pants， but it was alreadyJay Gatsby who borrowed a row-boat， pulled out tothe TUOLOMEE and informed Cody that a wind might catch him and break him up in half an hour.
I suppose he’d had the name ready for a longtime， even then. His parents were shiftless andunsuccessful farm people—his imagination hadnever really accepted them as his parents at all. Thetruth was that Jay Gatsby， of West Egg， Long Island，sprang from his Platonic conception of himself.
He was a son of God—a phrase which， if it meansanything， means just that—and he must be aboutHis Father’s Business， the service of a vast， vulgarand meretricious beauty. So he invented just thesort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen-year-old boywould be likely to invent， and to this conception hewas faithful to the end.
For over a year he had been beating his way alongthe south shore of Lake Superior as a clam diggerand a salmon fisher or in any other capacity thatbrought him food and bed. His brown， hardeningbody lived naturally through the half fierce， half lazywork of the bracing days. He knew women early andsince they spoiled him he became contemptuous ofthem， of young virgins because they were ignorant，of the others because they were hysterical aboutthings which in his overwhelming self-absorptionhe took for granted.
But his heart was in a constant， turbulent riot.
The most grotesque and fantastic conceits hauntedhim in his bed at night. A universe of ineffablegaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the clockticked on the wash-stand and the moon soaked
with wet light his tangled clothes upon the floor.
Each night he added to the pattern of his fanciesuntil drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For a while thesereveries provided an outlet for his imagination； theywere a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality，a promise that the rock of the world was foundedsecurely on a fairy’s wing.
An instinct toward his future glory had led him，some months before， to the small Lutheran collegeof St. Olaf in southern Minnesota. He stayed theretwo weeks， dismayed at its ferocious indifferenceto the drums of his destiny， to destiny itself， anddespising the janitor’s work with which he was topay his way through. Then he drifted back to LakeSuperior， and he was still searching for somethingto do on the day that Dan Cody’s yacht droppedanchor in the shallows along shore.
Cody was fifty years old then， a product of theNevada silver fields， of the Yukon， of every rushfor metal since Seventy-five. The transactions inMontana copper that made him many times millionaire found him physically robust but on theverge of soft-mindedness， and， suspecting this aninfinite number of women tried to separate himfrom his money. The none too savory ramificationsby which Ella Kaye， the newspaper woman， playedMadame de Maintenon to his weakness and sent
him to sea in a yacht， were common knowledge tothe turgid journalism of 1902. He had been coastingalong all too hospitable shores for five years whenhe turned up as James Gatz’s destiny at Little GirlBay.
To the young Gatz， resting on his oars and looking up at the railed deck， the yacht representedall the beauty and glamor in the world. I suppose hesmiled at Cody—he had probably discovered thatpeople liked him when he smiled. At any rate Codyasked him a few questions （one of them elicitedthe brand new name） and found that he was quick，and extravagantly ambitious. A few days later hetook him to Duluth and bought him a blue coat， sixpair of white duck trousers and a yachting cap. Andwhen the TUOLOMEE left for the West Indies andthe Barbary Coast Gatsby left too.
He was employed in a vague personal capacity—while he remained with Cody he was in turn steward， mate， skipper， secretary， and even jailor，for Dan Cody sober knew what lavish doings DanCody drunk might soon be about and he providedfor such contingencies by reposing more and moretrust in Gatsby. The arrangement lasted five yearsduring which the boat went three times around thecontinent. It might have lasted indefinitely exceptfor the fact that Ella Kaye came on board one nightin Boston and a week later Dan Cody inhospitablydied.
