Part 23 (1/2)

”So he said,” said I. ”And he was pretty outspoken about it too. He told me his tour with you was a rank failure.”

”I'd like to know his name,” said the major, and I could almost hear the dear old gentleman biting into the wire.

”Well, I guess he wouldn't mind my telling,” said I. ”There wasn't anything particularly confidential about our talk. His name is Bangs--John Kendrick Bangs.”

My name came back at me over the wire like an explosion of dynamite.

”_Bangs_!” retorted the major. ”Good Lord--_Bangs_! Does he call a trip up to Albany and back a tour? _I guess he was a failure!_ I can tell you things about Bangs as a platform performer that'll show you mighty quick whose failure it was, and if you want to bring him along to hear what I have to say on that subject, _bring him_. The idea! My Heavens, old man--why, he--”

”Oh, never mind all that, Major,” said I. ”I'm only telling you what he said. I don't have to take it all as gospel truth, you know.”

”Well I guess not!” snorted the major.

”Now I'm very busy these days,” I continued, ”and I really haven't got time to go to your office; but if you will take lunch with me to-morrow at the Century Club, about one o'clock, we can talk this thing over.”

”I'll be there,” said the major. ”One o'clock sharp, and meanwhile if you run across J. K. tell him with my compliments that he can go to thunder. _Tour!_ I like that!”

”All right, Major,” said I. ”Don't fail me.”

And there our telephone conversation closed. The following morning I arranged at the club to have the major ushered into the reception room in case he called and asked for Wilberforce Jenkins, and as the hour approached I lingered around to see the fun.

Faithful to the minute the major arrived at one o'clock, inquired for Mr. Jenkins, and was requested to wait in the reception room, since Mr.

Jenkins had not yet come in. After he had been sitting there for about five minutes I decided that the time for action had arrived; so I walked into the reception room myself.

”Why--h.e.l.lo, Major!” said I, as cordially as I really felt. ”How are you these days?”

”I'm all right,” he said coldly, ignoring my outstretched hand.

”What are you doing here?” I asked.

”I don't know that that's any of your business, Bangs,” said he, bridling up; ”but I don't mind telling you that I've come to meet a man who when it comes to writing real humor has got you skinned eight billion miles.”

”Good!” said I. ”Who is this eighth wonder of the world?”

”His name,” said Major Pond, ”is Wilberforce Jenkins.”

”Oh, Lord!” said I. ”That faker? Well, I am at least glad to know what your standards of humor are.”