"Good!" said I. "Let's have it."
He handed it to me, and I glanced at it. It was a copy of Jerome K. Jerome's "Three Men in a Boat, not to Mention the Dog!"
"No flattery at all," said I, my growing conceit falling back to par. "I'm glad you like it."
And then for the first and only time in my life I committed forgery. I took the book to a writing table near at hand, and inscribed the flyleaf with "Appreciatively yours, Jerome K. Jerome." And as I left the hotel the last sight that greeted my eyes was my kindly deputy assistant host studying that inscription with a look of extreme bewilderment on his screwed-up countenance.
Apropos of this incident it is rather curious how frequently my name and that of Jerome K. Jerome have been confounded. I have always considered it a compliment, and I sincerely hope Jerome himself will not mind it. I suppose the identity of our initials J. K. is responsible for it, and possibly the fact also that Jerome's "Three Men in a Boat" and my own "House-Boat on the Styx" were published at about the same time. One of the most amusing incidents based upon this confusion of identity occurred in California last spring. I was spending Easter Sunday at that remarkable hostelry, the Mission Inn at Riverside, feeling that in some way despite of my desserts I had got into heaven, and quite convinced that I could stand an eternity of it if the particular atmosphere of that wonderful Sunday were typical of life there. The inspiring Easter sunrise service on Mount Rubidaux was over, and I was resting comfortably in the office when a young woman paused at my side, and said,
"You will excuse me for speaking to you, sir, but your face bothers me."
"I am very sorry, Madame," said I, "but it has bothered me too for over fifty years."
"Oh, I don't mean that way," she answered quickly. "I mean that I can't place it."
"Well," said I, trying to smile, "you really don't have to. It is already located."
"But I don't know where I have seen it before," she pleaded.