At noon the British embassy gave out the announcement that “a distinguished person” had cabled for detailed information and had begged to be kept in hourly touch with the developments. Flaming head-lines carried the legend “King Anxious About Lost Dirigible.” Upon reading this three rival publicity promoters who had suspected the presence of the fine Italian hand of Jimmy Martin in the proceedings from the beginning and who had foregathered for lunch in their favorite club, simultaneously started out on a joint jamboree that was to become a memorable minor historical incident in the turgid annals of Broadway. It offered the only means of escaping from the tragic feeling of profound and passionate envy that surged up from the very depths of their beings.
At 3 o’clock as Jimmy, red-eyed and haggard, nodded at his desk between telephone calls, a messenger boy dropped a cablegram in front of him. He tore it open and gazed bewilderingly at this cryptic message:
HAMILTON, BERMUDA.
JAMES T. MARTIN.
JOLLYLAND PARK,
CONEY ISLAND, N. Y.
COME ON IN—THE WATER’S FINE—GIVE
MY REGARDS TO LOLITA, BUT CAN’T
SAY I’M SORRY IT HAPPENED AS YET.
BOBBY WILKINS.