"Once," remarked Diller, a fine looking chap who was intently interested in a squat bottle and a siphon, "I had money and ambition and no sail-boat. Who was I, anyhow? A landsman! A nobody! Didn't belong to a yacht club, or anything else."
"Except Mrs. Diller," interjected Geo. B., with a sly wink at Jarrod.
"Then I bought a sail-boat—"
"And a dingy," added Geo. B.
"And paid up the debts of the club and was made Commodore. Commodore Diller! Who was I then? Why, ev'rybody said: 'Morn'n', Com-mo-dore!' 'Have a smoke, Com-mo-dore!' 'One more with me, Com-mo-dore!' Ah; that's bein' somebody, that is. Commodore Diller! Com-mo-dore Dil-ler."
"Some men acquire greatness," said Jarrod, sympathetically.
"Fact is," remarked the solemn Berwin, "that Diller's a fine sailor. Got a good boat, too. Every race we have, Diller's there."
"Where?" asked Diller, looking up with a puzzled expression.
"Oh, somewhere," said Berwin. "Only yesterday I said to Wilder—"
"Con-found Wilder!" yelled little Stakes, growing red with sudden rage and pounding the table fiercely. "Why should that monster's name be mentioned in the sanctity of the sanctum of this respectable Yacht Club? Wilder's a robber, a thief, a con-man, a—a rascal, and a—a—a—"