“Jack Vance—of the Montagnard Club—we went fishing—don’t you remember—?”
The identification was cut short by a shout at the other end of the telephone in which there was no iciness or impatience at all. “Oh—Jack Vance—why, Great Scott, boy, it’s you, is it? I’m delighted to hear your voice. I was thinking about you yesterday and of how you fell down on the fly question. The Scarlet Ibis was crude, was it? What have you got to say about that now?”
Jack’s great pealing laughter went down the telephone wires in response. “You certainly pasted me on that, sir,” he agreed cheerfully, and then, “I want to know if I can bother you with a question or two about railroads,” he began, and explained the situation briefly. He had been assigned to argue a case in one of the moot courts—the mock trials of the students—of the law school; it was his first case; he wanted to win it “the worst way”; he was at a standstill about a railroad question; he needed the point of view of a practical experience.
“You’re a railroad man, aren’t you, sir?” Jack asked.
There was a second’s hesitation at the other end of the wire, and the answer came as if the speaker were smiling. “Well, yes—I’m called that.” And Mr. Bradlee’s friendly voice went on: “Tell you what, my son—we can’t discuss law over the telephone. Will you come down to lunch to-morrow at the Lawyers’ Club?”
“Why, I’d simply love to do it, thank you,” Jack agreed joyfully.
“Good. One o’clock. Come to my office. Possibly I may find—somebody who will help me advise you. We’ve got to win that case if it takes a leg—it’s a sort of Scarlet Ibis case, I consider, you see.” And with light-hearted laughter again at both ends of the wire the telephone was hung up.
Promptly at one next day a tall young man of fresh color was handed along with distinguished courtesy from one to another of such an array of officials as guards the valuable time of magnates in great offices.
“Gee!” remarked Jack casually as he landed at last in the private office and the very presence of Mr. Bradlee. “Gee, this is ‘some’ different from Adelard Martel and the tent, isn’t it, Mr. Bradlee?”
On the wall of the office, in a frame behind a bulging glass, hung one of the ugliest and one of the most satisfactory personal possessions which earth affords, a trophy trout set up by experts. Its weight, five and three-quarters pounds, was marked clearly in a corner, above the date, August 7, 19—. Hooked in the grim black mouth gleamed a red fly. This work of art was examined, criticised, and appreciated by the visitor before he took his way with his host through the swarming life of down-town to the great Equitable Building, which held the famous club restaurant.