“Oh, well, Gillespie, in that case—” The grief was lifting from Mr. Lobel. He turned to his second in command. “Wasn’t I only just now saying to you, Milton, that Gillespie is the one always for novelties?”
The director chose to disregard the compliment.
“Do you recall that handsome-looking old scout that I brought back with me here last month from the Southern trip?”
“Like a skinny Santa Claus, huh? Sure, I seen him,” said Mr. Lobel, “and wondered what you was maybe going to do with him.”
“Me, too,” said Mr. Liebermann, affectionately known among lesser members of the staff as “Oh-yes-yes Milton.” “The one with the w’ite w’iskez, you mean. Also I wondered about him.”
“Well, then, here’s the answer,” explained Gillespie. “Just a few minutes ago it came to me. I’m going to give him a bit to play in the Gettysburg stuff. Did either of you two ever happen to hear of John Burns?”
“Let me think—the name comes familiar,” said Mr. Lobel; “wasn’t he a middle-weight prize-fighter here some few years back? Let’s see, who was it licked that sucker?”
“No, no, no,” Gillespie broke in on the revery. “I mean the John Burns of the poem.”
“Sure,” assented Mr. Liebermann, who prided himself that although somewhat handicapped by lack of education in his earlier days he had broadened his acquaintance with literary subjects after he quit dress findings and tailors’ accessories. “What Gillespie means, Lobel, is the notorious poet, John Burns.”
“Are you, by any chance, referring to Robert Burns, of Scotland?” demanded Gillespie with a burr of rising indignation in his voice. Gillespie had been born in the land of cakes and haggis.