The citizens of that town had a library that was devoted rather to good literature than to architectural splendor. Their books were housed in an ordinary shop, or store. It was deep, narrow, and bookishly cozy, and at the far end of it, seated at a generously large table, engaged in knitting, was a charming lady who glanced up from her needles as I approached.
"Pardon my intrusion, madam," I panted, "but can you tell me where I can find Miss So-and-So?"
"I am Miss So-and-So," she replied graciously.
"Well," said I, "I am Mr. Bangs."
Her knitting fell to the floor. "Why—Mr. Bangs!" she replied, with a gasp almost equal to my own. "I am very glad indeed to see you; but what are you doing here?"
"I—I've come to lecture," I said weakly, almost pleadingly.
"To lecture?" she echoed. "Why, your lecture is not to be until a week from to-night!"
"Then I am afraid we shall have to get my astral body to work," said I; "for a week from to-night I shall be at Hiawatha, Kansas. How do you propose to have the lecture delivered—by long distance telephone, or parcels post?"
We gazed into each other's eyes for a moment, and then—we both laughed. It seemed the only thing to do.
Gallantry forbids my saying which of us had made the mistake under the terms of the written contract. Suffice it to say that two months later I returned to that good little town, and was received like a conquering hero by an audience that in its cordiality more than compensated me for the distressing effects of an "unlectured lecture."