"Look out!" cried one of my fellow-passengers, seeing that I appeared to be unconscious of danger.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"The interviewers!"
"Nonsense! Not here, surely!" I exclaimed.
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than two young men handed me their cards, with the announcement that they were journalists.
"We have come to present our respects to you," they said, "and to wish you a pleasant time in our country."
While they uttered these words they scanned me from head to foot, jotting a few strokes on their note-books. They were taking my portrait, which appeared next morning at the head of the articles that the press of New York thought fit to devote to me. The portrait was a flattering one. One paper, however, gave the following description of your humble servant:
"Max O'Rell is a rather globular Frenchman of about forty." Then followed a description of my travelling suit and other effects.
"Globular!" The idea!
"Forty!" No, gentlemen; thirty-nine, if you please.