"Well—why—suffer me—jest wait a minute," said Droop. He clutched the book he had been reading and opened it at random. "Here," he said. "'Love's Labor's Lost,' for instance."
"What!" exclaimed Bacon, starting indignantly to his feet. "'Tis but a sennight I saw this same dull nonsense played by the Lord Chamberlain's players. 'Love's Labor's—" he broke off and repressed his choler with some effort. Then in a slow, grave voice he continued: "Why, sir, you have been sadly abused. Surely the few essays I have made in the field of letters may stand my warrant that I should not so demean myself as is implied in this repute of me. Pray tell me, sir, who are they that so besmirch my reputation as to impute to my poor authority the pitiful lines of this rascal player?"
"Why, in very truth—marry, it's in that book. It was printed in Chicago."
Bacon glanced contemptuously at the volume without deigning to open it.
"And prithee, Master Droop, where may Chicago be?"
"Why it was in—no! I mean it will be—oh, darn it all! Chicago's in Illinois."
"Illinois—yes—and Illinois?" Bacon's dark eyes were turned in grave question upon his companion.
"Why, that's in America, ye know."
"Oh!" said Bacon. Then, with a sigh of great relief: "Ah!" he exclaimed.
"Yea, verily—in sooth—or—or thereabouts," said Droop, not knowing what to say.