Average Jones straightened in his chair.
“Latin!” he said. “And an ad, by the look of it. Can our blind friend, J. Alden Honeywell, have taken to the public prints?”
“Hardly, I think. This is from the Classical Weekly, a Baltimore publication of small and select patronage.”
“Hm. Looks ra-a-a-ather alluring,” commented Average Jones with a prolonged drawl. “Better than the Rosicrucian fakery, anyhow.”
He bent over the clipping, studying these words:
L. Livius M. F. Praenestinus, quodlibet in negotium non inhonestum qui victum meream locare ve lim. Litteratus sum; scriptum facere bene scio. Stipendia multa emeritus, scientiarum belli, præsertim muniendi, sum peritus. Hac de re pro me spondebit M. Agrippa. Latine tantum solo. Siquis me velit convenire, quovis die mane adesto in publicis hortis urbis Baltimorianæ ad signum apri.
“Can you make it out?” asked Bertram.
“Hm-m-m. Well—the general sense. Livius seems to yearn in modern print for any honest employment, but especially scrapping of the ancient variety or secretarying. Apply to Agrippa for references. Since he describes his conversation as being confined to Latin, I take it he won’t find many jobs reaching out eagerly for him. Anybody who wants him can find him in the Park of the Wild Boar in Baltimore. That’s about what I make of it. Now, what’s his little lay, I wonder.”
“Some lay of Ancient Rome, anyhow,” suggested Bertram. “Association with Agrippa would put him back in the first century, B. C., wouldn’t it? Besides, my informant tells me that Mr. Livius, who seems to have been an all-around sort of person, helped organize fire brigades for Crassus, and was one of the circle of minor poets who wrote rhapsodies to the fair but frail Clodia’s eyebrows, ear-lobes and insteps.”
“Your informant? The man’s actually been seen, then?”