"The National Street Advertising Men's Association. Altogether about one hundred and fifty members and one band of music. So long, and thank you very much, Mr.—er—"
"McDevitt.
"Mr. McDevitt. I'll return in about an hour from now, if I may. Thank you." And he bowed himself out.
Hendrik Rutgers had spoken as a man speaks who has a train to catch that he mustn't miss. That will command respect where an appeal in the name of the Deity will insure a swift kick. Republics!
In an hour he was back, knowing that the Mayor had gone. He sent in for Mr. McDevitt. The secretary appeared.
"Did he say he'd come?" asked H. Rutgers, impetuously.
"I am sorry to say the Mayor has a previous engagement that makes it absolutely impossible for him to be present at your dinner. I've got a letter of regret."
"They'll be awfully disappointed, too. I'll get the blame, of course. Of course!" Mr. Rutgers spoke with a sort of bitter gloom, spiced with vindictiveness.
"Here it is. I had him sign it. I wrote it. It's one of those letters," went on the secretary, inflated with the pride of authorship, "that can be read at any meeting. It contains a dissertation on the beneficent influence of advertising, strengthened by citations from Epictetus, Buddha, George Francis Train, and other great moral teachers of this administration."
"Thank you very much. I appreciate it. But, say, what's the matter with you coming in his place? I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I have a hunch that when it comes to slinging after-dinner oratory you'd do a great deal better."