Mr. Honeywell had now gained his composure. “You are right,” he assented. “You seem to have a singular faculty for being right. Be careful it does not fail you—sometime.”
“Thank you,” returned Average Jones. “Now you will listen, please, all of you.”
He read the brief document, placed it before the blind man, and set a pin between his finger and thumb. “Sign there,” he said.
Honeywell smiled as he pricked in his name.
“For identification, I suppose,” he said. “Am I to assign no cause to the newspapers for my sudden action?”
A twinkle of malice appeared in Average Jones’ eye.
“I would suggest waning mental acumen,” he said.
The blind man winced palpably as he rose to his feet. “That is the second time you have taunted me on that. Kindly tell me my mistake.”
Average Jones led him to the door and opened it.
“Your mistake,” he drawled as he sped his parting guest into the grasp of a waiting attendant, “was—er—in not remembering that—er—you mustn’t fish for bass in November.”