“Make a limerick on Phœbe Norris?” he was repeating a question, possibly to gain time. “Sure I can!” He rolled his eyes upward. “Sure I can! It’s a simple matter, if you know how. Uh—let me see. ‘There was a young lady named Phœbe.’ No! That would never do. The only rhyme for Phœbe is ‘Hebe,’ the goddess of beer. U-m!... I have it! Well, how’s this?”
Richard spoiled that limerick by asking:
“Won’t someone introduce me to the poet?” and his hand went out eagerly to meet Jawn’s.
Jawn, however, was not so receptive. With a jocularity that was understood by everyone but the watchful Walter, he protested that he couldn’t be certain whether he ought to meet the gentleman for the first time or kiss him on either cheek as an old boyhood friend; he couldn’t be certain until they got together secretly and connived a bit. A bit of conniving now and then, he assured everybody, was relished by the best of men—and the worst of women. He had come to “Red Jacket,” he complained, with a perfectly good alias, and hardly had he been enjoying a high-class name for an hour when the daughter of the house saw through his verbal disguise and exposed him to the ridicule of the natives.
“Under the aristocratic name of Jawn Dalrymple—or was it Dalton?” he looked about him imploringly.
“It was De Lancey,” helped Jerry.
“De Lancey, of course!——”
Mrs. Wells interrupted. “I beg pardon,” she said, “I don’t want to seem stupid, but I thought you said your name was De Lancey? Isn’t that your name, Mr. De Lancey?”
Jerry explained carefully. “He was just joking us, mother. He is Mr. Richard’s old friend Mr. Galloway, Professor John Galloway of Columbia University.”
“The cat’s out!” Jawn turned disconsolately to Richard; “so I might as well shake hands and own up. It was a great mistake. I see it now. I ought to have worn whiskers.”