"So he said," said I. "And he was pretty outspoken about it too. He told me his tour with you was a rank failure."
"I'd like to know his name," said the major, and I could almost hear the dear old gentleman biting into the wire.
"Well, I guess he wouldn't mind my telling," said I. "There wasn't anything particularly confidential about our talk. His name is Bangs—John Kendrick Bangs."
My name came back at me over the wire like an explosion of dynamite. "Bangs!" retorted the major. "Good Lord—Bangs! Does he call a trip up to Albany and back a tour? I guess he was a failure! I can tell you things about Bangs as a platform performer that'll show you mighty quick whose failure it was, and if you want to bring him along to hear what I have to say on that subject, bring him. The idea! My Heavens, old man—why, he—"
"Oh, never mind all that, Major," said I. "I'm only telling you what he said. I don't have to take it all as gospel truth, you know."
"Well I guess not!" snorted the major.
"Now I'm very busy these days," I continued, "and I really haven't got time to go to your office; but if you will take lunch with me to-morrow at the Century Club, about one o'clock, we can talk this thing over."
"I'll be there," said the major. "One o'clock sharp, and meanwhile if you run across J. K. tell him with my compliments that he can go to thunder. Tour! I like that!"
"All right, Major," said I. "Don't fail me."
And there our telephone conversation closed. The following morning I arranged at the club to have the major ushered into the reception room in case he called and asked for Wilberforce Jenkins, and as the hour approached I lingered around to see the fun.