“Probably an accident,” remarked Ned Tooker. “The name was Curtis, do you see, and the printer got mixed and set up a B for a C. Simple enough. Merely a typographical error.”
“It’s no funnier than your name, Ned,” observed Arthur Thompson. “I suppose, by the same token, your name was once Hooker?”
“No,” replied Ned gravely, “it was formerly Ted Nooker, but owing to an unfortunate habit of mine—”
Everyone laughed, and Kendall, without knowing what at, found himself laughing with the rest. Ned waited gravely and continued:
“As I was saying, or about to say when so rudely interrupted, owing to an unfortunate habit I have of transposing the first letters of words it became Ned Tooker. You get me, I trust, gentlemen?”
“We get you, Ned. It must be confusing, however, for your folks.”
“It was at first. But I prevailed on the family to adopt my version and now we’re all Tookers. Of course, it took us some time to get—”
But he was drowned in a howl of agony.
“Mr. Gaddis told us in class last year,” said Abercrombie, dropping his glasses from his nose and rescuing them, “that the pun was the lowest form of humor. I agree with him.”
Ned Tooker bowed deeply. “I shall inform him of your agreement, Mr. Abercrombie. He will be glad to learn it.”