“Whitely,” observed Mr. Blodgett admiringly, “you’re a good business man, whatever else you are!”
“I wish, Blodgett,” inquired Mr. Whitely, “you would tell me why I have been kept waiting so long?”
“Many a name’s been up longer than yours,” replied Mr. Blodgett in a comforting voice. “You don’t seem to realize that the Philomathean’s a pretty stiff club to get into.”
“But I’ve been posted for over three years, while here Dr. Hartzmann is elected within four months of his proposing.”
“Well, the doctor has the great advantage of being a sort of natural Philomath, you see,” Mr. Blodgett explained genially. “He was born that way, and so is ripe for membership without any closet mellowing.”
“But my reputation as a writer is greater than Dr.”—began Mr. Whitely; but a laugh from Mr. Blodgett made him halt.
“Oh come, now, Whitely!”
“What’s the matter?” asked my employer.
“Once St. Peter and St. Paul stopped at a tavern to quench their thirst,” said Mr. Blodgett, “and when the time came to pay, they tossed dice for it. Paul threw double sixes, and smiled. Peter smiled back, and threw double sevens. What do you suppose Paul said, Whitely?”
“What?”