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in business. Now, who wants to write an article for the inaugural issue?”
    They had been enjoying heckling Woollcott and now extended their scorn to Harold Ross.
    “Ross,” Adams said, “you’ve been talking about launching that magazine for years. Do you really think we believe you’ll get it off the ground now?”
    Ross was born out West and still retained some of the earnest sincerity of a country boy. “Why, sure! Now, come on, who wants to contribute to the first issue and make history?”
    “Forget it,” Dorothy said. “Even if you do launch it, that magazine is going to sink faster than the Titanic .”
    Ross looked over the group seated around the table and eventually turned to the good-natured Benchley.
    “Benchley, you can do it. You can write something light and funny and urbane.”
    “Such as?” Benchley said.
    Dorothy spoke. “Give it a rest, Ross. We’re busy with something just a bit more serious right now.”
    Ross said, “More serious than a dream that I’ve been trying to make real for years?”
    “Yes, believe it or not, more serious than that,” she said. “We were wondering why a chipper fellow such as Ernie MacGuffin would suddenly throw himself off a bridge.”
    Ross’ bright expression darkened. He rubbed his big chin, thinking. “Yeah, I heard about that. MacGuffin is the talk of the town.” Then Ross snapped his fingers. “That’s it, Benchley! Write a story about why MacGuffin committed suicide.”
    “That’s what you mean by light and funny and urbane?” Benchley said drily. “I’d hate to see what your more serious articles will cover.”
    Ross was unperturbed. “That’s just what such a story needs. Your light touch. Not irreverent, just witty. Respectful yet affable.”
    “Aff yourself, Ross,” Dorothy said. “It’s a macabre idea.”
    “No, it isn’t!” he insisted. “You just said you were asking yourselves why a guy like MacGuffin would throw himself off a bridge. Everyone in town is wondering the same thing. Now here’s your chance to find out. You and Benchley can write it together.”
    Dorothy and Benchley looked at each other.
    She said, “I couldn’t possibly write such a thing.”
    “Five hundred bucks says you can,” Ross said.
    That caught their attention. Everyone at the table sat up.
    Ross didn’t stop there. “Come on, Benchley. You can do it. And, Dottie, if you don’t want to write it, you can help him out with interviewing MacGuffin’s friends and next of kin. Then the two of you split the fee however you want.”
    Dorothy and Benchley looked at each other again. They were thinking the same thing. Five hundred would pay off their liquor bill at Tony Soma’s, with money to spare.
    “Come on,” Ross implored. “This story needs you. And you need this story.”
    “Oh, do it,” Adams cried, “if only to shut Ross up.”
    “Fine,” Benchley said. “I’ll do it.”
    “Great,” Ross said. “I need it in a week.”
    A week? Dorothy thought. Benchley looked equally doubtful.
    Woollcott said, “Well, you have your first story, Ross. But do you even have a name for this new magazine of yours?”
    Ross nodded. “ New York Life .”
    “Sounds like an insurance company,” Kaufman said. “Do you have any other ideas?”
    “ The Metropolitan ?”
    “Another insurance company,” Connelly said. “Anything else?”
    Ross ran a hand through his thick hair, which stood on his head like an upturned bristle brush. “ Our Town .”
    Woollcott snorted. “Sounds like a Rotary Club newsletter. Come, come, Ross. You can do better than that.”
    Ross folded his arms over his chest. “You’re all so damn smart. You tell me what to call it.”
    John Peter Toohey, a Broadway press agent and an occasional member of the group, spoke up. “Your magazine is for New Yorkers, by New Yorkers, and about New Yorkers. Why not call it The New Yorker ?”
    They all turned to look at Ross, who exhaled in frustration. “That’s the dumbest thing