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EZRA POUND 305
the Treasury. He had almost lost the sight of one eye as the result
of some sort of accident while working on the Panama National
Railways. Of course, our government ought to pay for this, as the
government of Panama has no money. The case dragged on for
some years. He could have gotten an award at once, but he did
not have the necessary cash to expedite matters.
I had hoped that Ezra would let this dark little man, who was
nearly blind, tell his fortune, but he would not. I had practiced
palmistry myself, but I had never been able to grab Ezra's paw and
see what was written there. The Panamanian was also an authority
on diet. He informed Ezra that when a person drank orange juice
and ate eggs for breakfast, the resultant combination of chemicals
lit a slow fire in the intestines, which burned for about three days.
I am inclined to believe this, and, no doubt, most of our superior
"drive" stems from just such fires. We are, so to speak, jetpropelled.
I am ashamed to admit that, like so many of my close friends,
Rex has caused serious embarrassment to the government. I do
not refer to his part in freeing Ezra, but to an earlier escapade.
In 1948, Rex was still employed by the Washington Times Herald.
He was undoubtedly the best-liked person in that collection of
misanthropes, even though his tips on the horses were sure death.
Among Rex's acquaintances was a gentleman who was engaged
in the business of charity, which is a very good business. We will
call him Major Villrey, and his organization the Soldiers of Misfortune.
The Major had had a quarrel with his superiors—the inevitable
disagreement over money—and he had struck out for himself,
or rather, I should say, for charity. At this time, he was
holding forth in modest quarters on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Like most newspapermen, Rex was very interested in charity,
and he always crossed the street in order to hand a beggar a
quarter. He felt that the Major's divine work of saving wrecked
bodies should have greater support from the populace, and he
persuaded his city editor to run a small item describing the work
being carried on by the Soldiers of Misfortune.
As chance would have it, an old Negro, lying on his deathbed,
read the story in the Times Herald. With his last bit of energy, he
scrawled out a will, leaving Major Villrey title to a building he