Another complication only tended to increase the coldness, as well as to involve me with Mrs. Blodgett. In December, Mr. Blodgett came into Mr. Whitely’s office and announced, “I’ve been taking a liberty with your name, doctor.”
“For what kindness am I indebted now?” I inquired.
“I’m a member of the Philomathean,” he said,—“not because I’m an author, or artist, or engineer, or scientist, but because I’m a big frog in my own puddle, and they want samples of us, provided we are good fellows, just to see what we’re like. I was talking with Professor Eaton in September, and we agreed you ought to be one of us; so we stuck your name up, and Saturday evening the club elected you.”
“I can’t afford it”—I began; but he interrupted with:—
“I knew you’d say that, and so didn’t tell you beforehand. I’ll bet you your initiation fee and a year’s dues against a share of R. T. common that you’ll make enough out of your membership to pay you five times over.”
“How can I do that?”
“All the editors and publishers are members,” he replied, “and to meet them over the rum punch we serve on meeting nights is worth money to the most celebrated author living. Then you’ll have the best club library in this country at your elbow for working purposes.”
“I don’t think I ought, Mr. Blodgett.”
He was about to protest, when Mr. Whitely broke in upon us, saying, “Accept your membership, Dr. Hartzmann, and the paper shall pay your initiation and dues.”
I do not know whether Mr. Blodgett or myself was the more surprised at this unexpected and liberal offer. Our amazement was so obvious that Mr. Whitely continued: “I think it’ll be an excellent idea for the paper to have a member of its staff in the Philomathean, and so the office shall pay for it.”