No stranger ever came to the city who did not, sooner or later, hear “that screamingly funny fellow, Deyo, and his perfectly killing imitation of a bee.” His fame spread.
He had been married a number of years and had a child or two when he came home one evening visibly excited.
“My dear,” he called to his wife, his voice full of excitement tinged with awe, “tonight I am to meet Professor Schweeble. He just came to town. Think of it! Karl Humperdinck Schweeble!”
“Schweeble?” said Mina, blankly.
“You don’t mean to say you never heard of Schweeble!”
“I’m afraid not.”
“But I’ve spoken of him score of times.”
“Oh, perhaps you have,” she said, yawning. “I thought he was a bird.”
“Why, Schweeble is the biggest bird man in the world,” he exclaimed. “It will be a big night in ornithology when Schweeble and Deyo shake hands. He must know my work; of course he must. He can’t have missed that great auk monograph and the cuckoo book.”
He was so excited he could hardly tie his dinner tie.