"What name?" asked Mr. Deeley. His voice was high, sweet and loud; his handshake was a knuckle pulverizer.
"Pottle," said the owner of that name.
"I beg pardon?" said Mr. Deeley.
"Pottle," said Mr. Pottle more loudly.
"Sorry," said Mr. Deeley affably, "but it sounds just like 'Pottle' to me."
"That's what it is," said Mr. Pottle with dignity.
Mr. Deeley laughed a loud tittering laugh.
"Oh, well," he remarked genially, "you can't help that. We're born with our names, but"—he bestowed a dazzling smile on Mrs. Gallup—"we pick our own teeth."
"Oh, Mr. Deeley," she cried, "you do say the most ridiculously witty things!"
Mr. Pottle felt a concrete lump forming in his bosom.