The rest of the breakfast was eaten in silence. The spring chickens were too good and too plentiful to admit of much waste of time in conversation. At the conclusion of the meal the Idiot rose from the table, and, after again congratulating Mr. Pedagog and his fiancée, announced that he was going to see his employer.
"On Sunday?" queried Mrs. Smithers.
"Yes; I want him to write me a recommendation as a man who can do nothing beautifully."
"And why, pray?" asked Mr. Pedagog.
"I'm going to apply to the Trustees of Columbia College the first thing to-morrow morning for an Emeritus Professorship, for[Pg 130] if anybody can do nothing and draw money for it gracefully I'm the man. Wall Street is too wearing on my nerves," he replied.
And in a moment he was gone.
"I like him," said Mrs. Smithers.
"So do I," said Mr. Pedagog. "He isn't half the idiot he thinks he is."