“Yes,” I said.
“Well,” he went on, “I am Dr. Wilson.”
“Oh!” I replied, somewhat mystified.
“Dr. Wilson!” he repeated. “You’ve heard of me, of course? I’m the President of the local Magicians’ Club, and these gentlemen”—indicating his companions by a wave of his hand—“are members of the deputation organised in order to bid you”—here he made a long and impressive pause, and beamed upon all and sundry—“to bid you,” he repeated, “welcome to our city.”
“Much flattered and obliged, I’m sure,” I replied, as each member of the deputation was introduced to me in turn. And each member of the deputation—there were about thirty of them in all—remarked effusively:
“Welcome to our city.”
Next, the old gentleman who headed the deputation made a speech. He said that he and his friends had heard of my fame, which was indeed world-wide, and that he and they wished me most cordially:
“Welcome to our city.”
By this time the baggage was loaded, and I was on thorns to be off. But another old gent, who introduced himself as the editor of the Kansas Magicians’ Magazine, butted in with yet another speech. He told me that the magicians of the place had booked the front row of the stalls for the coming matinée, and had arranged to entertain me to dinner after the performance, in order to show their appreciation, and to bid me—I knew what was coming by this time:
“Welcome to our city.”