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I
decided
to
call
to
him
.
Miss
Baker
had
mentioned
him
at
dinner
,
and
that
would
do
for
an
introduction
.
But
I
did
n't
call
to
him
,
for
he
gave
a
sudden
intimation
that
he
was
content
to
be
alone
--
he
stretched
out
his
arms
toward
the
dark
water
in
a
curious
way
,
and
,
far
as
I
was
from
him
,
I
could
have
sworn
he
was
trembling
.
Involuntarily
I
glanced
seaward
--
and
distinguished
nothing
except
a
single
green
light
,
minute
and
far
away
,
that
might
have
been
the
end
of
a
dock
.
When
I
looked
once
more
for
Gatsby
he
had
vanished
,
and
I
was
alone
again
in
the
unquiet
darkness
.
About
half
way
between
West
Egg
and
New
York
the
motor
road
hastily
joins
the
railroad
and
runs
beside
it
for
a
quarter
of
a
mile
,
so
as
to
shrink
away
from
a
certain
desolate
area
of
land
.
This
is
a
valley
of
ashes
--
a
fantastic
farm
where
ashes
grow
like
wheat
into
ridges
and
hills
and
grotesque
gardens
;
where
ashes
take
the
forms
of
houses
and
chimneys
and
rising
smoke
and
,
finally
,
with
a
transcendent
effort
,
of
men
who
move
dimly
and
already
crumbling
through
the
powdery
air
.
Occasionally
a
line
of
gray
cars
crawls
along
an
invisible
track
,
gives
out
a
ghastly
creak
,
and
comes
to
rest
,
and
immediately
the
ash-gray
men
swarm
up
with
leaden
spades
and
stir
up
an
impenetrable
cloud
,
which
screens
their
obscure
operations
from
your
sight
.
But
above
the
gray
land
and
the
spasms
of
bleak
dust
which
drift
endlessly
over
it
,
you
perceive
,
after
a
moment
,
the
eyes
of
Doctor
T.
J.
Eckleburg
.
The
eyes
of
Doctor
T.
J.
Eckleburg
are
blue
and
gigantic
--
their
irises
are
one
yard
high
.
They
look
out
of
no
face
,
but
,
instead
,
from
a
pair
of
enormous
yellow
spectacles
which
pass
over
a
nonexistent
nose
.
Evidently
some
wild
wag
of
an
oculist
set
them
there
to
fatten
his
practice
in
the
borough
of
Queens
,
and
then
sank
down
himself
into
eternal
blindness
,
or
forgot
them
and
moved
away
.
But
his
eyes
,
dimmed
a
little
by
many
paintless
days
,
under
sun
and
rain
,
brood
on
over
the
solemn
dumping
ground
.
The
valley
of
ashes
is
bounded
on
one
side
by
a
small
foul
river
,
and
,
when
the
drawbridge
is
up
to
let
barges
through
,
the
passengers
on
waiting
trains
can
stare
at
the
dismal
scene
for
as
long
as
half
an
hour
.
There
is
always
a
halt
there
of
at
least
a
minute
,
and
it
was
because
of
this
that
I
first
met
Tom
Buchanan
's
mistress
.
The
fact
that
he
had
one
was
insisted
upon
wherever
he
was
known
.
His
acquaintances
resented
the
fact
that
he
turned
up
in
popular
restaurants
with
her
and
,
leaving
her
at
a
table
,
sauntered
about
,
chatting
with
whomsoever
he
knew
.
Though
I
was
curious
to
see
her
,
I
had
no
desire
to
meet
her
--
but
I
did
.
I
went
up
to
New
York
with
Tom
on
the
train
one
afternoon
,
and
when
we
stopped
by
the
ashheaps
he
jumped
to
his
feet
and
,
taking
hold
of
my
elbow
,
literally
forced
me
from
the
car
.
"
We
're
getting
off
,
"
he
insisted
.
"
I
want
you
to
meet
my
girl
.
"
I
think
he
'd
tanked
up
a
good
deal
at
luncheon
,
and
his
determination
to
have
my
company
bordered
on
violence
.
The
supercilious
assumption
was
that
on
Sunday
afternoon
I
had
nothing
better
to
do
.
I
followed
him
over
a
low
whitewashed
railroad
fence
,
and
we
walked
back
a
hundred
yards
along
the
road
under
Doctor
Eckleburg
's
persistent
stare
.
The
only
building
in
sight
was
a
small
block
of
yellow
brick
sitting
on
the
edge
of
the
waste
land
,
a
sort
of
compact
Main
Street
ministering
to
it
,
and
contiguous
to
absolutely
nothing
.
One
of
the
three
shops
it
contained
was
for
rent
and
another
was
an
all-night
restaurant
,
approached
by
a
trail
of
ashes
;
the
third
was
a
garage
--
Repairs
.
George
B.
Wilson
.
Cars
bought
and
sold
.
--
and
I
followed
Tom
inside
.
The
interior
was
unprosperous
and
bare
;
the
only
car
visible
was
the
dust-covered
wreck
of
a
Ford
which
crouched
in
a
dim
corner
.
It
had
occurred
to
me
that
this
shadow
of
a
garage
must
be
a
blind
,
and
that
sumptuous
and
romantic
apartments
were
concealed
overhead
,
when
the
proprietor
himself
appeared
in
the
door
of
an
office
,
wiping
his
hands
on
a
piece
of
waste
.
He
was
a
blond
,
spiritless
man
,
anaemic
,
and
faintly
handsome
.
When
he
saw
us
a
damp
gleam
of
hope
sprang
into
his
light
blue
eyes
.
"
Hello
,
Wilson
,
old
man
,
"
said
Tom
,
slapping
him
jovially
on
the
shoulder
.
"
How
's
business
?
"
