“That’s my unfortunate manner, Haldiman. I don’t really mean to do so. If I had a game leg, or a club foot, and came thumping in here with it, you wouldn’t make fun of my defect, would you? Of course not. Well, why should you resent a defect of manner when you know my intentions are good?”
“I don’t resent anything about you, Barney—at least only spasmodically.”
“You know I’d go to the end of the world to serve a friend—I would, honest! Yet I’ve no luck. Here is a poor devil of a musician I am trying to befriend. I can see he dislikes me intensely. I got a publisher to bring out some of his music—paid all the expenses—yet it was like pulling teeth to get that organist to allow me to help him, and he’s a genius if ever there was one. I got a select and appreciative audience together to hear him play. He didn’t come, although he promised to do so, and the people thought I was trying to make fools of them. It must be all my accursed manner. Now you always know the right thing to say: I don’t. My genius doesn’t run that way. I’m an artist.”
Haldiman threw back his head and laughed. Barney stared at him, displeasure on his brow.
“What the deuce are you laughing at now?”
“Forgive me, Barney; I’m laughing at the thumping of your club foot, although you did not believe me capable of it.”
“What have I said?”
“Nothing—nothing. Barney, I love you! You are the one and only Barnard Hope; all others are base imitations. Now listen to me. I haven’t the faintest idea what it is you want. This conversation has been simply encyclopaedic in the amount of ground covered; but I’ll do for you what you would do for me, short of abduction or assassination. I’d prefer not to land myself in prison, if you don’t mind, but I’ll even run the risk of that. What do you want? Out with it!”
“But the moment I begin, you’ll say your insulted. You terrorize me, Haldiman,—’pon my soul, you do!”
“Go on. For ten minutes insults are barred. Will you go on?”